Sweet Intoxication
by T'eyla Minh
Summary: I'm back! Again! Dark, angsty, semifluffy soontobe songfic. ExC, obviously. Part Thirteen, at long last: a very important chapter, this one. I've kept you all waiting FAR too long... Enjoy.
1. Part One

**SWEET INTOXICATION**

_**SUMMARY:** "The reminiscence comes / Of sunless dry geraniums / And dust in crevices…" to quote T.S.Eliot ("Rhapsody on a Windy Night", if you're curious…) - which isn't so much a summary as an overview. On a dark and stormy night, Christine reminisces, and finds herself taking a little journey. Erik composes; she dances. Mildly weird song-piece with no real plot. It's vaguely fluffy in places, but isn't really about fluff; rather, it's about the dark, dangerous, scary nature of love, and a possible outcome of any future they might have that isn't all hugs and puppies. At least, that's what the voices are telling me…_

**RATING:** PG and slightly angsty. It's also E/C, of course, despite how it may appear at the start…

**SETTING:** It's technically set in canonical alternaverse - it's in the same place as it would be in the show (Act One, the first time Erik takes her to the lake) but with different outcomes. But as you'll see, it's also set at some point in a far-from-happy future, about fifteen years or so after the actual events of the show/book. Confused? You will be =) (The fifteen-year time period proves somewhat problematic given Erik's implied age, however, seeing as he would most likely be dead. Therefore, artistic licence dictates I shall mess with things, and make him only slightly older than Christine…)

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own the characters. The characterisation is probably unconsciously stolen from Susan Kay. The song belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber and Hal Prince (I assume…) and Really Useful. (Quite how I managed to get "Moulin Rouge" into this, I don't know - but all Parisian imagery is most likely stolen from Baz Luhrman and his team. Historically, I think it's mostly accurate… geographically, most likely not…)

**DEDICATION:** Many: Midasgirl, because I owe her part four of the "Freedom…" saga and it's still not written. Angela, because she introduced me to this version of the song and I've finally got a copy. The E/C shippers, in general.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** I'm ashamed to say that I wrote a songfic, seeing as the genre is notoriously horrendous. However, this is a songfic with a difference, sort of. It's set to a POTO song to begin with. In fact, it's set to the most clichéd song I could possibly set it to - "Music of the Night". Ah, but not just any version. It's set to the Michael Crawford/Barbra Streisand duet version of the song, which has slightly different lyrics to the 1987 OLC original, and completely meltworthy harmonies, and this fic is entirely based on the random and sporadic mental images the song produced. I'm going to chapter this because it's writing itself out of control. Should only be about three or four parts, though.

Those who remember my being around this section a couple of years back may notice a slight change in my style (commonly known as "being generally better") - which is what writing "Farscape", "Buffy" and "Sunset Boulevard" fics will do for you. Three very different, but equally tricky-to-characterise fandoms, all of which prodded my Muses and helped to expand my style. (And yes, examples are in my profile; and no, it's not a plug :P)

Also: I finally got to see the Opera! Well, the outside of it. It was closed when I was there, but it's probably just as well. I walked around the edge of it in a state of stunned awe and I think being inside would have made my brain explode. If anyone wants to see pictures, they can be found on . Enjoy =)

**Sweet Intoxication**

PART ONE

Nobody in their right mind would have been out in such weather as this. The sky was a dark, ominous shade of black, tumultuous grey clouds swirling across the night and obliterating the stars. The end of the world, indeed, if one believed the world would end in a splashing torrent of water and rolling thunder. Lightning streaked across the sky with a loud crackle, momentarily lighting up previously dark corners, and sending frightened and mangy stray cats running for cover. The downpour beat tiny pock holes into the surface of the roads and pavements, tiny craters appearing on the slick, tar-like surfaces, as the staccato rattle of the raindrops continued.

The city's many grand achievements in architecture - its towers of steel, and its gargantuan buildings of stone and marble - all loomed oppressively in the night. Most were shrouded in darkness, abandoned for the evening. Some sheltered smaller buildings from the battering wind. In residential areas, occasional apartments and houses were lit up, as families sat by the fire, or impoverished writers struggled to finish their latest masterpiece before morning.

The inclement weather had driven most sensible people indoors several hours before, when the storm had started getting stronger. The rain had been pouring for two nights, now, but the storm itself had started only that afternoon. It had become progressively worse as the night wore on. A few still wandered the mostly-empty streets, trying to find lodgings, or attempting to flag down passing carriages. Such wanderers were few and far between, however, as the majority of sane (and sober) citizens were making the most of their warm houses.

Christine de Chagny stood at the French doors of the library, on the second floor of the Vicomte's city chateau. Part of her wished she'd taken up his offer of going to the country estate for a few days; but, of course, it had been a glorious Parisian afternoon when he'd asked her, and she'd planned on strolling in the sunshine. Raoul had finally conceded, and then the rainstorm had started. She told him to wait, being adamant it would pass soon enough. That had been two days ago, and she was still waiting, and Raoul had given up trying to argue with her optimism; he'd disappeared to his study to do God only knew what, leaving her to her thoughts. Hence, she had planned on spending this particular evening reading, and had come to the library for just that purpose. She'd picked a novel at random, positioned herself comfortably by the fire, and started reading. The rain pelting against the windows had proved too much, however, disrupting her concentration entirely, so she'd gotten up to draw the curtains in an attempt to block it out. As she'd caught a glimpse of the view, though, her thoughts were instantly lost.

The French windows led out onto a stone balcony, and looked out over the street below. Their house was large, but modestly so, and built in one of the most reputable areas of the city. On the opposite side of the street was a row of smaller, but equally decent, houses, but they didn't know the occupants well, only enough to be able to pass the time of day. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower poked its nose above the city; the lights of the capital shone, brighter over Monmatre, infamous den of artists and whores. She'd heard they were planning to build a club there soon; the ballerinas with whom she no longer associated were gathered in giggling huddles about it, because auditions were due to be held for dancers. Christine hadn't the heart to tell them exactly why the pay was so high, and she was glad Meg was sensible enough - as assistant ballet mistress under her mother - to keep their thoughts occupied elsewhere.

Nearer, behind the row of houses, the familiar outline of the Opera loomed, silhouetted against the sky. Occasionally, lightning would illuminate the roof and its golden angels. Christine sighed, remembering a time long ago, when she and Raoul had fled to the rooftops. The fifteen years that had passed since the events of that time seemed an eternity, and she realised, somewhat sadly, that her life had been completely unworthy of note. Raoul was stable and safe, and loved her unconditionally - when she wasn't being stubborn or headstrong, or trying to run the household her way. As he put it, "You may be the Opera's Prima Donna, but it is an entirely different matter at home." She was the First Lady of the assembled singers and _corps du ballet_, but only in name, not in temperament; she was kind to her peers, and on a first name basis with nearly all of the dancers, unlike her predecessor. In truth, Raoul disapproved of her career, wanting her to be a dutiful wife and mother to the children they had yet to have, but it was the only issue she defied him on. The Opera was her life, and she refused to give it up.

She hated herself for thinking it, but she'd often wondered, more frequently of late, what her life might have been like if she hadn't ended up with Raoul. The choice she'd been forced to make had been futile, in the end, because even after proving her loyalty, she'd been released to the Vicomte's care. Things would have been very different, she supposed. Not on any monetary level - she would still be the Opera's First Lady, and she would still be leading a comfortable life doing what she adored - but on an emotional level, she knew the guilt that had plagued her for years wouldn't be nearly as strong. Even if she'd never been able to see Raoul again, he knew she loved him. Christine had never been given a chance to tell her false Angel the truth; she'd begged Raoul to let her go back to the house beyond the lake, just so she could say goodbye, but he'd refused. She'd expected nothing less. Sneaking out would do no good, because he would inevitably find out. For fifteen years, her conscience had reminded her of nothing else.

As another fork of lightning streaked across the clouds, Christine's thoughts were jolted abruptly back to the present. Her book lay forgotten on the chair, face-down and open a few pages in, where she'd left it. Ordinarily, she would never treat a book that way, but it hadn't interested her. She placed her palm to the window's surface, shocked at how cold it was, but she didn't pull away. The icy temperature of the glass triggered another deluge of memories. His touch had been as cold as that, no matter how briefly his skin had come into contact with hers: when he'd helped her out of the boat onto the shore; when she'd ripped the mask from his face and brushed her fingers against the flesh beneath; when he'd whisked her from the premiere performance of _Don Juan_, gripping her wrist in his vice-like fingers; that devastating, Hellish night when he'd forced her to choose between them, and the kiss that had ended it all, changed everything beyond anyone's imaginings. She would remember that kiss to her dying day: the desperation with which she'd eventually clung to him, unwilling to let go, and the sudden sensation of utter helplessness as she felt herself drowning, falling into his world. More than anything else, she'd remember that moment when he'd let her go, at the exact same second she'd let herself fall in love with him.

A clap of thunder broke through her reverie, and with a gasp, she pulled her hand back from the pane, realising it had gone numb. She shook it to get some feeling to return, and wrapped it in the folds of her dress to warm it. She was suddenly very glad to be alone in the room; if Raoul could see her now, he'd wonder what was wrong with her. It was warmer near the fire, but Christine was compelled to remain by the window. She managed to tear her gaze from the distant Opera, watching absently as a light was extinguished in one of the houses opposite. (The carriage clock in the hallway chimed, informing her it was nearly quarter to eleven.) Normally, she would be in bed by now. Raoul had yet to reappear from his study - she suspected he'd fallen asleep at his desk again, and she was in no mood to wake him - and she wasn't tired in the slightest. Going to bed would only mean her rambling thoughts would turn into equally rambling, vivid dreams. No, bed was not an option.

On the street below, she spotted a man walking past their house. He was huddled in his long coat, a fedora on his head, and a thick scarf covering most of his features. He seemed to sense her presence, and stopped for a second, looking up at the balcony. A gloved hand emerged from the folds of his coat, and he tipped his hat politely. A pair of eyes, sharp as steel and bright as a cat's in the dark, met her own; her breath caught; she felt suddenly light-headed. She knew those eyes. She'd thought never to see them again. Their gazes remained locked, until she blinked, and then he was on his way again.

Suddenly, the wind grew stronger, buffeting the windows and rattling the panes to such an extent she felt sure they would break. She took a step back away from the French doors, taking it to be a sign. The wind subsided again, but she barely noticed. She was moving about in a daze, quickly, not entirely sure of her actions, all of her thoughts consumed by the man who was, by now, long gone. She found herself abandoning the library, running down the two flights of stairs to the main hallway, reaching for a warm, hooded cape, and leaving the house. The night was colder than she'd thought; a biting chill cut through her, and she pulled the cape further around herself as she set off into the night.

_To be continued..._

**A/N:** Something of a cliffhanger :) Enough reviews will get part two, which is already written. I'm just buying some time so I can get the rest finished... And no, I haven't even got to the song yet. This will teach me not to write fics based on obscure mental images. 


	2. Part Two

**SWEET INTOXICATION**

_**Disclaimer, etc. as before.  
A/N:** Thanks for the positive reviews so far! Feedback makes me a happy author :)_

Darryl - if I can tempt you into the POTO fandom, then good. But keep on reviewing the story for being a story, too, and I won't complain ;)

Midasgirl - no threats, please. Threats make me write slower. But just to prove I'm not a sadist, I'm giving you chapter 2 earlier than I expected to... As for being the Angst Queen... well, yeah, I am, but this will be happyish. In a dark and angsty way. Oh, you'll see ;) If I promise to write some fluff to make up for it, can I be angsty?

Narsil - patience, my dear, patience. It'll be a while before they do any talking.

Riene - wow, I have a fan? Cool! And, uh, the Eiffel Tower being there was actually an oversight on my part; I guess I'm just really lucky, huh? I was spending so long trying to figure out when the Moulin Rouge was built that I took it for granted the Eiffel Tower hadn't been built til 1887... Having finally been to Paris properly, I got a tad overconfident ;)

Ash, Torim0818 and florence, and anyone else who might have reviewed in the meantime - your words are kind, and your wish is my command. Here's Part Two. Enjoy, and keep the feedback coming :)

PART TWO

The hood served as little protection against the rain, once the wind had caught it, but Christine barely noticed. She walked automatically, realising now where she was going, and letting her feet take her there of their own volition. She had more important things to think about than consciously remembering a journey she'd taken by carriage too many times to mention.

Fifteen years. Fifteen long years of trying not to think about her past, of forcing herself not to remember the days spent under the Opera, and why? Because Raoul demanded it of her. Because he was everything she'd wanted as a girl - rich, dependable, handsome, loving, just the right amount of years older than her for it to be acceptable - and because she'd forced herself to continue to want it, despite her conscience telling her it was wrong, and despite her heart screaming at her that it wasn't what she wanted in the slightest. She had her reputation to think of. News had spread of their hurriedly-arranged engagement like wildfire; she'd known, even without it having to happen, that any news of her breaking off a relationship with the Vicomte de Chagny would spread even faster and further, and ruin her in the process. The risks had been too high for her to listen to her heart, even when she knew precisely what - and who - it wanted.

She thought back to the weeks and months immediately following that fateful night. Initial reports claimed him missing. After several days of searching, all to no avail, he was classified as dead. Through it all, both Madame Giry and Meg had kept their silence, neither divulging any information about what they'd experienced; Christine pretended to be too traumatised to speak of it. The three of them were linked in protecting him, being the only ones who knew the truth - he wasn't dead. He wasn't even remotely missing. He was in the Opera, the same as always, only he was considerably less 'vocal' and troublesome. They'd left him secret packages of trinkets and rare ornaments to refurbish his house- anything that hadn't been destroyed by the mob was sold to various traders, and they'd managed to track most of the items down by accident and return them to him. Supplies from a nearby builder's yard dwindled more than they should have done. A horse from the stables went inexplicably missing. Nobody was any the wiser.

She'd seen him - or thought she'd seen him - at one of the performances, not in his old box, but up in the gods. It had been her premiere performance as the leading lady, and at the curtain call, rather than smiling at her wildly applauding husband in his private box, her gaze was drawn to a dark shape in the shadows at the end of one of the rows, way, way up on the balcony. A brief flash of white was all it took for her to recognise him. Her encore - and every encore since - had been for him; every note was in the knowledge that he was alive. For a decade or so, it had been enough, but it had also been a decade of learning to forget his name so as not to accidentally mention it. Raoul didn't cope well with phantoms from his past. It was safer to pretend there weren't any.

It wasn't that Raoul didn't make her happy. She probably couldn't have asked for a better life with anyone. It was just that, no matter how happy she was - or how happy she tried to be, as was becoming the case - something felt missing. As she made her way along the darkened streets of Paris, her shoes soaked, her hair heavy and dripping down her back, she realised precisely what was missing. All her years of learning to forget had failed; the name returned to her memory on demand.

_Erik…_

Christine's breath suddenly hitched in her throat, and tears stung her eyes, blurring her vision to such an extent that she had to stop. She leant against a nearby wall, momentarily protected on one side from the wind, and waited for the tears to subside again. This was precisely the reason she didn't think about him: the inexplicable and strong emotional response. She'd still not worked out whether they were tears of sadness or joy, or just an indication of how much power he still had over her.

She wiped at them, irritably, and sighed at herself. "Oh, God, Erik," she said, speaking to the night. "Fifteen years on, and you were never able to save me from myself. It's been a decade and a half of singing only for you… and you still haven't realised I love you." She paused, realising she was talking to herself. Letting out a derisive laugh, she muttered, "Even if you did manage to finally drive me insane."

Her eyes were dry again, however, so she set off on the final leg of her journey. The alleys and side streets seemed endless, but then, suddenly, they opened out, and the Opera towered above her. It was even huger in the dark than it was during the day, and seemed somewhat oppressive with its blackened interior. She emerged at the end of the Rue Glück, and made her way around the edge of the building until she came to the Rue Scribe. It had been a long time since she'd been this way, but she remembered it as if it were yesterday.

Oddly, the gate was unlocked, but she didn't dwell on it. It creaked as she pushed it open and stepped through, pulling it closed behind her. Soon, she was in familiar corridors - though bedecked with spider-webs and dust from misuse after so many years - and in pitch darkness. It didn't matter. She reached out for the wall and began to feel her way through the passages, mindless of the mildew that assaulted her fingertips, and the scurrying creatures at her feet. The younger, more naïve Christine would have been terrified by now, fearful of spiders and rats, but nothing was going to stand in her way. She'd come this far, and she knew - _knew_ - he would still be down here. If he wasn't, why was she so drawn to return?

She quickened her pace, pulled along the passages by some unseen force. Just when it was beginning to feel as though the blackness would swallow her whole, the lake came into view, and it seemed blinding after her journey in the dark. In truth, it was as dimly lit as ever, by strategically placed torches. The waters were still, but not still enough. There had been some activity recently, and, upon realising this, her heart leapt… until she looked around with newly-adjusted eyes and found there to be apparently no house, and no evident front door.

Defeated, and now extremely cold, Christine could only slump to the ground and stare dumbly at the bricks of the catacombs. To think she'd come this far, in body and in spirit, only to be foiled by the building itself. There was nothing for it; she'd have to go home. Except whatever force had brought her to this place had vanished, and she had no idea which way she'd come. The old rat-catcher had long since died - which, she realised, probably accounted for the movement of the lake if the rodents were ruling the cellars - and there was nobody to help her. She could just remember the way up to her old dressing room, but she'd have to cross the lake first. It was deep - deep enough to drown a man, at least - and likely freezing cold, and in her bulky dress she'd probably be pulled under in seconds.

If she waited until morning, she'd probably stand more chance of finding her way out. But that was only if she managed to survive the night without hypothermia setting in. Her choices appeared to be incredibly limited. How long would it be before Raoul realised she was gone? How long before the management sent out a search party?

She was now shivering violently, her sodden cape only hindering matters. And it was then that she heard it. Music. Faint, muffled, but unmistakably his.

She struggled to her feet, cursing herself for moving so noisily, and strained to hear it again. It had stopped, and for a moment she thought it might have been her imagination, but then, it started again, the same short phrase. He was composing! He was still composing, after all this time, and even through however many layers of brick and mortar, it had the same effect on her. Overwhelmed with relief, Christine managed to force her frozen legs to move again, and stumbled towards the wall. She pressed her ear to the bricks, and, luckily, the music grew slightly louder. Her brain was slow to function, but her logic began to take over. He'd re-built his home after the mob had destroyed it. They all believed him to be dead. If they somehow discovered that not to be true, then they would surely kill him, as their lust for revenge had never died. It made sense, therefore, that he would make every conceivable effort to conceal his house, even in a place so abandoned as this.

She began to frantically search for some kind of hidden panel, a loose brick, anything that could dislodge or move to reveal an entrance. She pushed at the stones, scraped at the powdery mortar until her fingers bled, but nothing worked. Finally, in desperation, she let out a frustrated scream and threw her entire body against the wall, using her remaining energy to pound on it with both fists, and kick at it with all her might, until something - anything - yielded. Surely if she kept it up long enough, he might hear her.

If nothing else, he might eventually leave the confines of his world, and find her - dead or alive, she cared not which - and finally bring her home…

_To be continued..._

**A/N:** 'Nother cliffhanger. Sorry :) Part Three coming when I've written Part Four, since I'm trying to stay ahead of myself so I actually finish this one. That's the theory, anyway. And I realised FFN had stripped the web address of my Paris photos - if anyone's desperate to see them, drop me an e-mail or leave a review with your e-mail address in it, and I'll send the link. And keep on reviewing! 


	3. Part Three

**SWEET INTOXICATION**

_**Disclaimer, etc. as before.**_

A/N: If anyone's wondering, this uses elements of the Leroux, Kay, and Lloyd Webber... because I do it that way by default and it's easier than sticking to one version when I love different elements of all three...

Riene - I think reading your "Red Rose" story has been very, very good for my Muses. It's also helped my characterisation a lot, too, since I was so out of practice, so thank you :) I'll get around to reviewing your short prequel fics soon, honest.

Lavendar - glad to see my reputation hasn't waned in the slightest. It seems when I lose infamy in one fandom, I find it again in another. :)

Skywalker-Blue - kill Christine? Never! Torture my readership? Oh, most definitely...

Narsil - here's hoping my Erik is up to standards *scared expression* as this chapter is Erik-centric.

Midasgirl - you love my Christine, you love my Erik... anyone you don't love? And when have you ever known her NOT to get hysterical? Also... when I said fluff, I meant, y'know, random fluff not attached to this fic, but... oh, I'll just see how it goes... It's dark and angsty and weird in my head, but all of that may change.

Without further ado, here's Part Three for your reading pleasure, whereby Erik does a little frustrated composing and talks to himself a lot...

PART THREE

How difficult could it be to find the correct combination of notes? There were only so many unusual clashes one could make before it became tedious, and the piece required something different to finish the final movement. The manuscript at the side of the piano was starting to look like a spider had walked through a puddle of ink across it, the notes had been re-written that many times. Tempting though it was to give up, he knew that if he didn't finish it tonight, he'd lose the inspiration entirely; this was the first piece that had come anywhere near to being finished in several months, and Erik plainly refused to add yet another pile of papers to the box of incomplete works he'd managed to accumulate over the years.

He peered over the top of the piano at the Siamese cat that lay curled in an armchair. "Oh, Ayesha. Can't you come and help me like you used to, hm? I could do with one of your symphonies." The cat eyed him knowingly, let out a sound midway between a purr and a meow, and went back to pretending to sleep. Ayesha didn't do very much of anything these days. She was well over twenty years old - at least five years beyond the age of any normal cat, Erik thought - and her fur was still sleek, though somewhat faded, and stretched over a bony form. She wasn't inclined to moving very far, if at all, and had taken up permanent residence by the fire. She was irreplaceable, and seemed to know it, determined to exist as long as was felinely possible; getting spoiled rotten turned out to be a positive side effect of losing all her muscle control.

Erik had thought her lost for good, after the mob had ceased their rampage. Nothing could possibly have survived the carnage, and he was certain she'd gotten buried under all the rubble and broken furniture, or burned alive when they torched the draperies. When he'd come back to survey the damage several hours later, he was about ready to die, despair and loss the only emotions his fraught brain could recognise. His home was destroyed - it was repairable, certainly, but only with energy he didn't think he could muster - and he'd lost the one person more precious to him than any possession, through his own, final, act of selflessness. The concept that he might have lost Ayesha as well was almost too much to bare. Then, just as he was giving up hope entirely, a weak scratching had alerted his attention. It took only a few minutes to find the Siamese. She was trapped beneath the remains of the organ, where she'd obviously run to for cover, and when he extricated her from the pile of wood and metal, the damage was surprisingly minimal. One hind leg was broken, but that would fix, and she'd lost an eye. He'd mended her nicely, splinting the damaged leg with the readily-available shattered wood, and fashioning an eye-patch to protect her wound once he'd closed it. Her pride was damaged more than anything else. Ayesha was a survivor; it had been her determination which eventually drove him to rebuild his house and his life.

Of course, he knew Madame Giry and her daughter were leaving him the ornaments and other trinkets, but he could never thank them for fear of being rediscovered. It was time to stop the tricks and childish games. He'd accumulated enough money throughout his 'Phantom' years to live comfortably, and the only other person who knew of his existence was his old friend Nadir. Through some unspoken agreement, Nadir had agreed to act as Erik's alter-ego, under an assumed name, receiving his correspondence and dealing with various business - through this process, he'd finally managed to get some compositions published, and that had been his livelihood for ten years or more.

By some ironic - perhaps even cruel - twist of Fate, his first published opera had been premiered above his very head. The 'composer' had been offered a box for the performance, which Erik graciously handed over to Nadir for safety's sake, while he booked himself a ticket as high up the auditorium as he could get. He was instantly cursing his own oversight when he realised who was in the leading role. Christine. He should have anticipated it, but he hadn't. He sat through the performance - and unlike _Don Juan_, it was a complete success - fighting off waves of desperation. She was glorious, her voice purer than ever, and he realised he'd unconsciously written every aria for her alone. He had, of course, spotted the Vicomte in one of the boxes, and his keen eyesight immediately picked out their matching wedding bands. They'd married fast, which didn't surprise him.

What _did_ surprise him was the curtain call. She looked in his direction, seeming to spot him… but he knew that was impossible. Wasn't it? Suddenly, he didn't want her to see him; he didn't want to start everything up again, especially now she was married. It would be too painful to bring the old feelings back. Except his heart had already defied him, something in the back of his mind mocking him: _Did you think you could just forget her, Erik? The only person to bring light to your world? Are you going to stand by and let her get to you all over again?_

He'd blocked it out, scrambling to his feet to get out of the auditorium before she really did spot him. As he got to the door, the strains of the first aria floated to his ears as Christine appealed to her cheering audience's request for an encore. It was all he could do to force himself to keep moving, pushing down the notion that she was singing for him. Certainly, she must have recognised the style as his, disguised though it was, but he wouldn't allow himself to believe she'd ever sing for him again.

Every performance since had been the same, for over a decade. It was agony, but what glorious torture it was. To hear that voice again, in the knowledge he'd created it, that she was there because of his teaching, was a wonderful experience - and yet, he could still hear tiny flaws, imperceptible to the untrained ear, that he knew he could fix in a matter of seconds. It was, however, no longer his place to train her. He wasn't her Angel of Music any more than he was the Opera Ghost, and he'd resigned himself to the audience, adoring her from afar like he'd done right at the beginning.

There had been no intervention into her life on his part, and, if she even knew of his existence, none on hers, either. She was in a different dressing room - her old one was occupied by one of the newest dancers - and he hadn't the inclination to concoct a new maze of passages to reach it. He'd contented himself to be an observer from afar, attending every opening night, but no other performances. After releasing her to the Vicomte's care, he hadn't even been expecting her to stay employed at the Opera; to ask any more than the small mercy he'd been granted would destroy them both, and he knew it.

With a sigh, Erik pulled himself out of his rambling thoughts, and looked back at the manuscript. The final strains were within his grasp, if he could just find the right chord. In truth, he'd lost his inspiration. Most of his pieces had been written with Christine in mind - it happened without him realising it, often until the performance, just like the first time - and this was no exception. But it had been so long since he'd finished anything that the management were recycling the old favourites, preparing for another gala concert. To hear her voice singing another composer's notes was far from inspirational. Nevertheless, he was determined to finish the piece and get it ready for publication before the night was out, even if he needed to wait for the weather to clear up before Nadir came to collect it. Flexing his fingers, he poised his hands over the keys.

"All right, my dear Ayesha. Let's finish this stubborn finale…" He played the phrase through again, as far as he'd written it, and stopped, trying to picture the notes in his mind. His fingers played on without him consciously realising it, only a few bars more, and not even to the end, but it was enough. There was a moment of silence while he allowed his brain to catch up with the music, and then he looked over at the cat once more. "How was that?"

Ayesha yawned, opening her single blue eye momentarily before settling once more, and he laughed. "Boring it may be, but…" His attention was diverted to a curious noise, emanating from what used to be his front wall. He realised it had been going on for quite some time and he'd merely neglected to notice before now. "What _is_ that?"

He hastily scribbled the notes onto the paper and got up from the piano, straining to hear. It was a definite scratching, which seemed to be the most prominent of the sounds, and the occasional thump. He started to panic at first. Could it be that after all this time, they'd finally found him? Immediately, logic took over - he'd taken all necessary precautions to ensure he'd _never_ be uncovered, going so far as to seal up the old front door entirely and add a concealed back door that only he and Nadir could open or knew about. It was then that he realised the scratching and banging didn't seem to be any form of attack. Rather, they sounded desperate, as though someone was trying to get inside away from danger. Years ago, he would have laughed at the irony of anyone seeking out the Phantom's lair as a safe haven, but right now, he was merely confused. Who on Earth could be out there? And, more to the point, why were they trying to get in through the wall?

He moved close to the source of the noise, realising it was coming from precisely where his front door used to be. Very few people knew where that was - the members of the angry mob had come in from all sides and, as far as they were concerned, anyway, had no particular reason to be down there, which narrowed it down to only three people. Madame Giry, Meg… or Christine. He discounted the last choice instantly as foolishness, but, having realised that his mysterious caller was probably safe, he supposed he ought to go and see what was going on.

"Perhaps we are being evicted," he told Ayesha, a faintly amusing image coming to mind of a poster being nailed to the bricks. As a precaution, he selected an ornamental sword from the wall. If it wasn't Madame Giry or her daughter, he wanted to be prepared for a fight. While it was true he was horribly out of practice in the art of killing a man - which his conscience informed him was a good thing, despite his inherent self-defence telling him it was quite the opposite - he was certain that, if the need arose, he could do a fair amount of damage with a sword, and the sight of the weapon alone might deter any attack to his person. Unlocking the back door, the sword wielded in one hand, he ventured carefully into the catacombs.

_To be continued..._

**A/N:** Oh, yes, I'm evil. But then, you never expected anything less, did you? Keep the kind reviews coming. I cheated slightly since Part Four isn't QUITE finished yet, but it will be, soon, and then I can start Part Five and keep you all waiting again :) 


	4. Part Four

**SWEET INTOXICATION**

_**Disclaimer, etc. as before.  
A/N:**I've posted this earlier than I intended to, mainly because FFN decided to upload my Chapter 3 twice, and there's no 'delete chapter' function - so I wanted to get this up while the fic was still ont he main page in the hopes people actually spotted the new chapter..._

I guess I should make a formal apology for the maltreatment of Ayesha ;)

I was going to do personal replies to some of the reviews again, but I can't think of anything to say, so... on we go... This is as fluffy as it gets, for the moment, so enjoy it.

PART FOUR

There were no lamps around this side of the house. It was a necessary precaution to take to keep it concealed, but, as Erik hadn't ventured out of his domain for a long while, it made it very tricky to see where one was going. He felt his way along the wall like a blind man, heading for the faint glow up ahead where the lamps still burnt around the lake, and from where the noise seemed to be emanating. Now that he was outside, he could hear it more clearly - a scratching still predominated, and the thumps sounded more like slaps and kicks to the dull, unyielding bricks. The occasional whimper would also reach his ears.

He was now more curious than concerned, as the intruder seemed desperate and frightened, rather than intent on causing him harm. It was entirely feasible his music might have been heard through the wall, after all, and if someone was lost and heard signs of life on the other side of an otherwise impenetrable barrier, it made sense they'd try their damnedest to try and gain entry. Nevertheless, he grasped the sword tighter, and continued towards the lake.

~*~

Christine was weakening, and she knew it. It seemed as though she'd been attacking the wall for hours, although it was, in reality, only a few minutes at most. The cold had rendered her fingers numb enough that she no longer felt any pain where the broken skin at her fingertips was bleeding, and her toes were soon to follow suit. She'd neglected, in her hurry, to dress appropriately for the weather. Her fine dress was soaked, as was the cloak she'd barely remembered to grab, and her shoes were ruined.

She was beginning to think she'd imagined the music after all. Maybe Erik had moved away from the Opera, as he had every right to do. She wouldn't blame him if he had, with all the bad memories it held. She'd never once given thought to how her continued performances there might have affected him, and a belated pang of guilt ran through her, the realisation dawning that perhaps she'd come all this way in appalling weather, drawn to this place, when there was nothing left but a sealed up tomb of an underground house. She gave the wall a final, hefty kick with her remaining energy, and slumped to her knees, defeated.

She rested her forehead against the cold bricks. Another flash of memory stirred, of the night she'd tried to end it all by repeatedly banging her head against the wall of her room, only succeeding in knocking herself unconscious. It dissipated again just as quickly, some reality dawning on her. She was going to die in this place, cold and alone, unless someone found her.

"Please…" she whispered into the dimness. "Please, Erik… if you're here, find me. Save me from this dark place…"

~*~

Erik froze when he heard her voice, stopping dead in his tracks as he forced his brain make sense of it. It couldn't be Christine, surely. Not at this time of night, not back at his house. As much as he'd hoped it might be her, he knew it would never come to pass. And yet, that was unmistakably her soft voice echoing desperately through the shadows.

His heart pounded, his breath coming in ragged gasps, suddenly more afraid of the one woman he'd loved for so long than of any dangerous intruder he could have envisaged. His mind raced through the possibilities of why she was here, what she might possibly want from him. He dared not even contemplate she'd returned for him alone. He was baffled, completely and utterly.

It was then that something in him registered the apparent desperation and exhaustion in her voice. Something was wrong; he could feel it, knowing instinctively even after the years apart from her. Now acutely aware of the fact that the scraping and thumping had stopped, panic overruled his inner turmoil, and was enough to drive him the final few steps into the light.

He rounded the corner and blinked as his eyes adjusted, then immediately looked for her. She was slumped on the ground, her head resting against the wall, and she wasn't moving. He stopped again, blind terror making his limbs cease to function, and watched her carefully, having no other option for the moment. He made no sound, listening for a tell-tale sign of her breathing; sure enough, he heard her, saw her body move slightly with the inhalation of musty air, and it was enough to jolt him out of his shocked stance. He dropped the sword with a clatter - she didn't even flinch - and ran over to her in an instant.

~*~

The almighty sound of metal being dropped on stone suddenly woke her up, and she hadn't even known she'd been asleep. She didn't hear the footsteps approaching, nor sense the body towering over hers; the only sensation she was aware of, suddenly, was of being eased away from her tense position against the wall and lifted into familiar, strong arms that she'd thought never to feel again. She heard a gasp from above her, and a shocked voice that resonated from a warm chest, into her body - "My God, you're freezing!" - before the light grew darker once more. She was unsure if that dark was her own eyes closing, or some change in surroundings. By this point, she no longer cared.

It grew warmer, but remained dark; she realised her eyes were indeed closed. Trying to open them, she found her vision to be blurred, so closed them again. Christine could feel herself slipping into unconsciousness, lulled by the motion of being carried. As the oblivion of sleep beckoned, she welcomed it, knowing, somehow, that she was safe.

~*~

It had been so long since he'd held her this close. It was all Erik could do to lay her on the sofa near the fire, but he knew that if he didn't get her warmed up, the result would not be pleasant. She'd been semi-conscious when he found her, soaking wet from an obvious walk in the storm, and freezing cold from the underground air. By the time he laid her down, she was completely asleep.

Moving quickly, he went to a box on the mantelpiece, and pulled out a key, then headed swiftly towards her old bedroom. It had been locked since she'd left. Taking a deep breath, he unlocked the door and stepped inside. He'd wired his entire house with new electrical lighting, diverting the supply from that of the main building as final, unspoken compensation for the destruction left by the mob, and was suddenly very grateful for it as he crossed to turn on a lamp. Immediately, he set about lighting a fire to warm the room, and then quickly pulled a blanket from a nearby chest, a pair of slippers, and a pillow from the bed, before returning to the sitting room and closing the door behind him to contain the heat.

Depositing the blanket and pillow on the floor near the sofa, he hesitated only momentarily before divesting her of the soaked cloak, since it was being more hindrance than help. He crossed the room to hang it up, then returned to her again. He realised with some dismay and fond remembrance that she'd not brought any valise with her, and no possessions, and was entirely wrongly attired considering the weather; luckily, the wardrobe was still filled with garments in her size, and they would have to do. Entirely unwilling to focus on the fact her dress was similarly soaked, he decided she'd simply have to get changed later on. He attended to her ruined shoes next, realising they were most likely salvageable; he put them near the fire to dry, and fitted her feet into the slippers he'd collected.

Then, he sought out something from which to fashion bandages, and fetched a bowl of warm water. Carefully, he set about cleaning her bruised, bloodied fingers, where she'd tried to scrape at the mortar. Wrapping them gently, making sure not to wake her, he laid them lightly on her stomach so she'd be comfortable.

Having attended to the three most obvious problems, he tucked the blanket firmly around her. Then, carefully, he lifted her head to slide the pillow beneath it so she'd be more comfortable. As he did so, he realised her hair was just as cold and wet as the rest of her, and felt an idiot for overlooking it. Lifting her head again, he gathered it from beneath her, away from her neck and back, and draped it over the arm of the sofa. Throughout his gentle ministrations, he'd deliberately not given it any conscious thought whatsoever, knowing it would be fatal to his already tenuous emotions… but at this point, he made the error of looking down at her. Suddenly, he was unable to let go, the weight of her still-long curls resting in his hands, and her sleeping form only inches from him.

_No!_ screamed a voice inside his mind. _Not again! Erik, don't do this to yourself a second time. Don't fall into that abyss of pain that you called love for this woman._ The voice was right. Whatever her reasons for being back at his home, in his life, he was absolutely certain they didn't involve any reciprocal feelings for him. Until he knew what she wanted him for - if she did at all - it was no place of his to run his fingers through her hair or gaze upon her beauty in sleep. He took a step back, letting her hair fall, and took one final liberty, gently moving a rogue curl out of her eyes before vacating her space entirely and positioning himself in an armchair across the room. He'd watch her, of course, but only in an impartial, concerned capacity. When her room had warmed up, he'd move her.

In the silence of the room, with Ayesha now fully awake and watching their guest with a critical eye, Erik contented himself with trying not to think about Christine. The piece of music he'd been working on was still not finished, after all. He played it through again in his mind, including the latest addition… and suddenly, the ending to the piece came to him, as if it had always been there. Astonished, he risked a glance to Christine, silhouetted by the fire. His Muse had apparently returned.

_To be continued..._

**A/N:** See, I can end on a pleasant note... Next chapter there'll probably be conversation of some kind, so keep the reviews rolling. Not that I'm holding chapters to ransom or anything ;) 


	5. Part Five

**SWEET INTOXICATION**

_**Disclaimer, etc. as before.  
A/N:** Right, I'll try not to upload twice this time... Here we go, they're finally going to try and talk, although I can't promise it'll be particularly constructive or even relevant..._

Midasgirl - ye Gods, woman, you're going to wear out my Muses. Keep your hair on. And no, kidnapping Jeremy is not going to work, for reasons already explained :P

Riene - you're entirely too nice to me...

Skywalker Blue - yes, you did mention how saddened you are. I felt like being mean to Ayesha, that's all.

Everyone else - thank you for the various comments :)

Right, here we go. Keep the reviews coming, as always.

PART FIVE

Christine awoke to the crackle of a nearby fire, and the sound of a pen being scratched across a manuscript. The last thing she could remember was being down in the catacombs, cold and scared, waiting for death to claim her… now, she was decidedly warm, apparently wrapped in a blanket, and lying on a soft couch. Breathing in, she recognised a familiar mustiness and the distinctive odour of bizarre Russian tea, residual in the air. She didn't dare open her eyes, though, in case it was a dream; she wanted to savour the feeling of being completely safe for a while yet.

It was then that she realised her hands were bandaged, and her feet were encased in warm slippers. If this was a dream, it was a very pleasant one indeed. Risking it, she succumbed to her curiosity and opened her eyes. Her gaze met the ceiling as her vision adjusted to the change in light, and she turned her head, rolling onto her side, and then sitting up. The blanket that had been over her fell and piled in her lap, and she poked her feet out to admire the delicate slippers. Pulling the blanket aside, she looked down, and realised her dress was filthy, caked with mud and dust from the catacombs. The scratching of pen on paper had stopped, and she felt eyes boring into her from across the room. Swallowing nervously, she turned her head.

Erik sat at the piano, a pen in one hand, and peered curiously at her over the lyre-shaped music stand. His eyes asked a million questions, not one of which seemed to predominate, but he didn't speak. She'd forgotten how intense his gaze could be after all these years, and, even though he wasn't angry or agitated, she felt decidedly uneasy under his scrutiny, mainly because she was completely unable to ascertain what he was thinking. She realised with a sinking heart that she'd not planned this far - she'd not planned at all, truth be told - and her brain had been filled with randomly romantic notions during the storm, with no real conversation or explanation plotted out. She was an actress, a performer. She read other people's words and lyrics, she didn't write them herself, and Erik had always been there to tell her how.

He was waiting for her to initiate the conversation, although there were a thousand and one different things he wanted to say to her. His gut reaction was to ask why she was back, and why on this night, why so suddenly with no prior warning… but he was nothing if not a gentleman, and the reasons for her presence could wait until the appropriate pleasantries had been made. Of course, the polite, gentlemanly thing to do would have been to start those pleasantries himself, but he didn't trust his own voice not to betray him. What on Earth did she expect of him, for God's sake? She knew how he'd felt about her - he was going to make absolutely certain she didn't know how he _still_ felt - and she was standing there, under his roof again after a decade and a half, as if they were old friends, as if there was no pain in their past to speak of. It was perturbing, to say the least. _She came to you for a reason_, he told himself. _She will tell you in her own time; just don't force it out of her._

Christine couldn't think of a single thing to say that wouldn't sound horribly contrived. A friendly "hello" wouldn't do, not after everything they'd been through, and nor would a "how have you been?" - knowing Erik, he would probably answer with something along the lines of "dead", since the general Opera populace seemed to believe that. Luckily, at that moment, there was a familiar screeching hiss from one of the armchairs; they both looked in that direction, Christine surprised to see the lithe, if considerably aged, form of his wretched foreign cat curled up in a nest of cushions. As Ayesha continued to growl at her, she turned back to Erik, and, throwing all caution to the wind, she spoke.

"Well, it's certainly pleasant to know I am well-received in your household, as usual…"

He stared at her. Of all the things she could have said, a sarcastic comment wasn't what he'd been anticipating. He provided her with a somewhat wry smile. "Things haven't changed much around here," he said, carefully. "You'll notice a few repair jobs on the walls, of course."

She hadn't noticed at all, since he'd done such a good job of concealing the damage, but as she looked around, she could see where there were broken wall panels or dents in the fireplace, and there were more tapestries and ornaments adorning the walls, presumably to conceal unsightly cracks. For the first time, she also noticed how the place was no longer dimly lit by candles, and that Erik had completely electrified the house. Aside from this, however, it looked exactly as she remembered.

Silence fell again between them, the pointless banality stopped in its tracks, and for a few more seconds, they merely regarded each other. Once more, the cat hissed at Christine, her jealousy all too obvious. Erik sighed and walked over to her, impatiently. "Honestly, Ayesha, _must_ you be so tiresome?" He crouched, and stroked her head to calm her. "Madame la Vicomtess is perfectly aware of your opinion of her."

He deliberately put more emphasis on her title, silently questioning her presence without directly asking. Christine instinctively flinched at his words, suddenly dreading having to explain herself, especially under the watchful, condescending eye of the cat that was now purring contentedly. Opting to keep the atmosphere as light as possible, she spoke up again. "Madame la Vicomtess is also perfectly aware of how filthy she is," she said, gesturing downwards to indicate her dress.

Erik had forgotten about that. He rose stiffly from his kneeling position on the floor, and gestured vaguely towards her old room. "Your room is as it was, Madame," he said, formally, "and all of your possessions and garments are still inside, if you wish to change." She looked towards the door, as he continued. "It should have warmed up nicely by now."

She nodded her thanks, deciding to use the time it would take to change as thinking space, and headed towards the room. As she reached for the handle, she suddenly laughed, turning around again to be met with Erik's decidedly befuddled expression, wondering what was so amusing. Controlling herself, Christine held her hands up, still firmly bandaged and entirely useless. "I feel rather like those men who box each other in the streets," she said.

"The scrapes should have healed a little by now," he told her. "If you'd care to sit down a moment, I'll attend to it."

Obediently, Christine sat in the other armchair, while Erik filled the bowl of water again in the kitchen. Ayesha continued to glare at her; it was then that she noticed the distinct lack of the cat's left eye. _Serves you right, rotten creature_, she thought, although she felt sorry for Erik, knowing how any damage caused to his cat would have affected him. Presently, he came back, carrying the bowl of water and a towel, and pulled up a footstool to sit in front of her. Silently, working diligently so he wouldn't have to look at her in such close proximity or really think about her presence at all, he un-bandaged her fingers. Christine sat patiently, accepting his ministrations as though it was the most normal thing in the world.

The bandages came off to reveal that her hands were more bruised now than bloody. As he discarded of the white strips, she examined her fingers, wincing at what she'd managed to do to herself in her panic the night before. Erik squeezed out a clean cloth, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

"I won't ask," he said, "quite why you decided to try and claw your way through my wall."

"I panicked," she answered, honestly. "When there was no sign of your front door… I thought perhaps you were…"

"Dead?" he asked, bluntly. "You would certainly be in the majority." 

She shook her head, not yet ready to admit that she'd seen him in the Opera, but wanting to reassure him nonetheless. "No. Just that you might have moved somewhere… somewhere else." Before he could question exactly where she thought he might have moved to, she added, "But if you _will_ go removing doors at random, what did you expect?"

"What did I expect?" he repeated. "Certainly not you."

"That was somewhat the point…" she muttered, half to herself. Stifling an impatient sigh, Erik reached for her hand so he could finish the task he'd started; immediately, the coldness of his touch shocked her into pulling her hand away from him. It caused him to finally look up, and they stared at each other, his eyes suddenly filled with self-loathing at his own mistake. Christine spoke again, trying to explain. "I apologise… it still hurts a little, that's all."

He wasn't convinced, but accepted the explanation nonetheless. Despite her flash of memory at the window, she'd utterly forgotten just how cold his touch could be, even in the warmest of rooms, and it had surprised her. She hesitated only a moment, and then extended her hand again so he could finish what he was doing. Erik similarly hesitated, then cleaned the dried blood from her knuckles with the cloth as quickly as he could, before vacating her personal space. As he moved back to the kitchen, he told her, "There are some fine cotton gloves in your room. I suggest you wear them to protect your hands, for the moment."

It was futile to try and talk to him now, while his back was turned, so she sighed at herself for managing to hurt him so early into the proceedings, and finally managed to enter her old room, wondering if that had been destroyed in the mob's wake along with the rest of the house, and what Erik might have done to it in the meantime…

_To be continued..._

**A/N:** There was originally a little more, but I'm making it the start of part six, mainly beause it, well, leads into part six ;) I never intended this to be this long. I haven't got to the song yet, either... If I go over fifteen chapters, someone shoot me, okay? 


	6. Part Six

**SWEET INTOXICATION**

_**Disclaimer, etc. as before.**_

Additional disclaimer: Erik's surname in this, I have borrowed from the fantastic Riene, without permission.

**A/N:** Sorry about the delay on this chapter. My Muse has been somewhat occupied with my creative writing coursework, but I've been trying to devote equal time to this…

Midasgirl - you're nice to me :P There. I still think Christine was justified in her comment about Ayesha.

Lavendar and Ash - there's nothing wrong with 15 chapters, really… just I'd rather not have a fic-that-refuses-to-end on my hands, having only just (nearly) finished the 30-chapter Buffy epic that was meant to be a short, one-scene fic, like this was meant to be a short, one-scene fic… (Oh, and Lavendar, I'd utterly forgotten about Raoul, so… here's something with him, while I try to avoid being Raoul-bash-y.)

Riene - thanks for the delightful comments once again. I hope your Muses wake up soon; your fics are wonderful. Incidentally, as I mentioned in an email, I utterly adore the surname you came up with for Erik, and having spent two years completely failing to come up with something appropriate, I've shamefully borrowed yours. I hope you don't mind. I've disclaimed it above =) If you want me to take it out, I will.

Christine Persephone - well, exactly. They're his doors, and he can do what he likes with them =)

Skywalker Blue and Badly Drawn Girl - thanks for the comments.

Everyone reading this - hope you enjoy this chapter. I apologise in advance for the hideous phonetic spelling. You try spelling a thick Cockney accent and see how well you do. (Basing it on the assumption that all lower class people always sound Cockney, even in France. Heck, we've all heard "Les Miserables", right?) If anyone can't decipher the spellings, I'll provide a translation on request - and for anyone British, the maid is meant to sound vaguely like Kat Slater from "Eastenders" because I've been watching too much of it than can be healthy, I'm sure…

Enjoy!

PART SIX

The room was unchanged except for the new electric lighting he'd installed, and the fire was blazing nicely. Going to the wardrobe, she discovered that all of the clothes she'd left behind when she'd fled with Raoul were still there, neatly hanging, several pairs of shoes for various purposes lined up in the base. Of course, the garments were a little out of style, it had been so long since they were purchased, but they'd do for now. She selected a blue gown, with white lace trimmings, and changed quickly. She ran a brush through her unruly hair, trying to make it look more presentable after her hike in the rain, and examined her reflection for a moment.

She saw herself staring back, ordinarily enough, but it was her as she'd been the last time she was here - fifteen years younger, horribly naïve, and without the world-weariness that seemed to emanate from her gaze whenever she saw her reflection in the mirrors at home. The younger Christine in the glass seemed to be mocking her, trapped in the back-to-front universe on the other side, living the alternative life she'd given up after that fateful night. What stories could this Christine tell her? What could she know about Erik's existence without her these past few years? After blinking quickly, the mirror showed her present-day self again - a gaunter face, with dark circles under the eyes, not from tiredness, but sheer exhaustion at the monotony of her life.

She'd realised soon after the wedding - which was practically immediate - that the life of a Vicomtess was not for her. It seemed her only purpose in life was to sit around doing nothing, and when she wasn't sitting around doing nothing, she was sitting around meeting various acquaintances of Raoul's. She'd convinced him to let her continue her job at the Opera, and without it, she was entirely certain she would have gone insane from boredom. Of course, she'd not anticipated ever seeing Erik again; along with everyone else, she'd believed the brief announcement in the _Epoque_, stating his death, and spotting him that night up in the gods had been something of a surprise.

She remembered it like it was yesterday, with vivid clarity. It had been a shock, initially; for a moment, she wasn't sure if he was really there, or if she'd imagined him - after all, it would be just like Erik to actually become a ghost, and haunt her life as well as her dreams. The only thing that had convinced her of his realism was the sheer, unmistakable presence that emanated from the back of the auditorium, and the fact that, upon spotting her, he'd immediately fled. She almost couldn't believe that for fifteen years, they'd been repeating the process - he would appear on first night, and she would sing for him. It was the only way she knew to try and let him know the truth without anyone else finding out.

Raoul didn't know a thing, of course, and neither did any of the Opera staff or management. It was a secret between herself and the Giry women, who, in turn, didn't realise that Christine knew. It didn't feel like betrayal, because, really, she wasn't doing anything wrong; nobody could accuse her of anything, when all she had were her thoughts.

She breathed a heavy sigh. Finally, it had come to this: fleeing her comfortable home in the middle of the night, for no apparent reason, and an impending conversation that would probably prove impossible. Erik was clearly curious as to her presence, and she had no idea what to tell him. _First things first_, she thought. _I need to at least greet him properly._ She sought out the gloves he'd mentioned, finding them on the dresser, and put them on. Determinedly, she turned to head back into the main part of his house.

~*~

"Where is she? Did you see her leave?"

The Vicomte de Chagny was becoming frantic. He'd awoken, rather uncomfortably, in his study, which was strange enough. Ordinarily, Christine would wake him up and insist he go to bed, so the sheer fact that she hadn't was what had alerted him as instantly odd. He'd searched the entire house at length, enlisting all of the servants in the hunt and demanding they also search the gardens despite the horrendous weather, but she was nowhere to be found. There was no note, and she'd taken nothing with her - neither clothes nor money - so he was, to put it lightly, beginning to get worried.

The maid whom he was currently interrogating, a small girl with her brunette hair caught up inside a mop cap, was close to tears, worry for her mistress combined with Raoul's shouting at her proving too much to take. "I don' know, sir," she said. "Last I saw 'er was last ni' in the lib'ry."

"Did she say anything?" he demanded, seizing her arm. "Think, girl!"

She winced. "No, sir! She just bid me goo'ni', an' tha' were all." She struggled. "Please, sir, you're 'ur'in' me…"

He let go of her and ran a hand through his hair, frustratedly. "I apologise, Françoise. I know it's not your fault." The maid relaxed a little, straightening out her apron, awaiting instructions. Just as Raoul was about to ask her again if she'd seen Christine leave, the head maid came into the room. She was a strict, but approachable woman, who commanded the workings of the rest of the servants.

"Françoise, Pierre requires your assistance in the kitchen."

"Yes'm," she said, curtseying and scurrying from the room.

"Any sign of her?" asked Raoul. "Any note?"

The head maid sighed. "I'm afraid not, sir. We've scoured the entire house, but she's not here. She must have left last night after dark."

"In this weather? I know she wanted to stroll in the city, but this is taking it rather too far." It was still raining hard, the ominous grey of the sky starting to reflect Raoul's impending mood. "Her maid informed me that all of her travelling clothes are still here. Wherever she has gone, she was obviously in a hurry to get there."

Raoul started to pace, trying to think where on Earth she might have gone. "Are you sure there's nothing in the library?"

The head maid nodded slowly. "Yes. We have double- and triple-checked the entire room, sir. There is nothing. Only her discarded book."

"There's nothing for it. Send out a search party into the city. I don't care if it takes them all week, but they are going to come back with Christine. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir…" she said, resignedly. Raoul was generally a considerate employer, but he had a volatile temper and could sometimes be incredibly illogical. "I shall also visit the house opposite and ask if anyone might have seen her-"

Her suggestion was cut off by the doorbell being rung. "Whoever that is," ordered Raoul, shouting in the direction of whoever was answering it, "send them away."

One of their pages appeared in the doorway of the room. "Actually, sir, you might want to speak to them. There's a man here claiming he saw her last night…"

~*~

Erik looked up as he heard the door to her room creak open, making himself look vaguely approachable. His attempt to speak to her before had been awkward, to say the least, and he realised he'd not made it very easy for her to tell him her business. Being defensive wasn't particularly constructive - and her sarcastic first words proved that she was stronger now than he'd ever thought she could be. Of course, she'd been strong-willed when he knew her, but now, she seemed even more so. He didn't dwell on why that was so. Surely a Vicomtess had no need for sharp wit; her conversational skills would be confined to conversations about the weather and horse-back riding. Had her life with de Chagny been that much of a battle of wills?

No. He wouldn't dare to hope she'd been unhappy there. Sending her away had been the best thing to do, and he'd always known it. She deserved a life in the light, where she could flourish, not an existence in the dark with a monster… even if that monster loved her more than life itself. She'd made her choice, and by the nature of it, it had been to save Raoul, not out of any feelings for her Angel of Music. Forcing her to stay with him beneath the Opera would have been essentially imprisoning her into a life he was sure she'd never wanted to begin with.

Then again, of course, there'd been that kiss…

He didn't have any time to dwell on that. Christine had positioned herself awkwardly back on the sofa, staring at him from across the room, trying to think of something to say. Eventually, she stood again, approaching him carefully. Standing himself, Erik waited for her to speak, determined not to push her into an explanation.

She cleared her throat. "Well," she said. "I suppose we ought to start again."

"That might be advantageous," he agreed.

Ignoring how utterly ridiculous it seemed, Christine curtseyed. "Bonjour, Monsieur de Becque."

Erik bowed back at her. "Bonjour indeed, Madame." He didn't take the hand she extended; rather, he ignored it completely. Pleasantries now dispensed with, his expression darkened. "And now, you have precisely fifteen minutes by that clock," he said, pointing to the mantelpiece, "to provide me with an adequate explanation as to your presence here."

~*~

The man in the thick scarf and coat entered the de Chagny house with the air of one who was meeting royalty, feeling swamped by the grandeur of the interior. The page who had opened the door offered an arm to divest him of his hat - which he was clutching nervously in both hands - asked for his name, and then led him through into the sitting room. Raoul was waiting in there, still pacing, his expression a mask of anticipation as to what this man could tell him in regards to Christine's whereabouts.

"This is Jean Rénard, sir," said the page, bowing and leaving the room. Raoul ceased his pacing and extended a hand to the man. They shook hands.

"Do come in, Monsieur Rénard," he said, since he was hovering uncomfortably in the doorway. "You are perfectly welcome. Take a seat, if you wish."

"Merci, monsieur. And please, call me Jean. Everyone does." He shuffled into the room, sitting himself down in one of the armchairs and gazing about the room in a state of awe.

"Can I get you a drink?"

He snapped his gaze back to Raoul. "Me? No, nothing, thank you. I shan't keep you long."

Raoul nodded absently. "Then we'll cut straight to the chase. You say you saw my wife?"

"Yessir. That is, assuming your wife's that pretty, pale thing wi' the brown hair."

"Yes, that's her."

"Then I saw 'er."

To Raoul, it was beginning to seem as if Jean was being deliberately cryptic, but he kerbed his impatience a moment and proceeded with his questioning. "When?"

"Let's think…" He concentrated. "Ah. 'Twere last night. I was walking down this fine street and just happened to look up, and she was standing in the window. She watched me for a moment and then I was on my way."

"You're telling me," said Raoul disbelievingly, "that you came all the way here this morning to tell me that you saw my wife _standing in the window of her own home?_"

"Aye."

"Does it not seem, to you, to be a fantastic waste of time on both our parts?"

Jean apparently didn't seem to think so. "Well, no, sir, because I saw 'er later on, as well." The Vicomte merely stared at him, so he continued, "'Tweren't _much_ later on, mind. She didn't recognise me, of course, and I wouldn't expect 'er to, neither…" He ceased his rambling when he noticed that Raoul's stare had become a glare. "To cut the story short, she was heading towards the… Rue Lafayette, if I'm not mistaken. That sort of area, anyway. Looked determined to get wherever she was going to."

"Rue Lafayette…" muttered Raoul, trying to work out why that was significant. "Thank you, Jean. You've been most helpful."

"My pleasure, sir."

"I'll get someone to see you out." With that, he left the room, rather distractedly, leaving the bewildered Jean Rénard to sit around and wait, too nervous to find someone in the grand house. Raoul continued to mutter the street name under his breath, attempting to remember whereabouts that was in the city; he stopped the first servant he saw and enquired, "Do we have a map anywhere here?"

The bewildered servant suggested the library - which Raoul realized was obvious, after all - and he made his way there. There was something decidedly odd about this entire situation, the almost-familiar street name only making it more so. It seemed they not only had a disappearance on their hands, but a mystery, as well.

**_A/N:_** Gah. Not looking forward to Erik and Christine's conversation, I can tell you. Sorry for the excess of Raoul, but having been reminded that I'd forgotten about him, I thought I'd better satiate people's thirst for wanting to know what he was doing. Although quite why anyone's worried is beyond me :) Keep the reviews a-comin'!


	7. Part Seven

**SWEET INTOXICATION**

_**Disclaimer, etc. as before.  
A/N:**Firstly, I apologise for the horrible delay. I got caught up in finishing my epic "Buffy" fic of Doom, writing a mini-sequel and an episode-filler fic, and exams, too. Now I'm sitting very firmly on my SpikeMuse so I can try and concentrate on this one, although I can't promise the chapters will be regular. Expect more delays. Here's a chapter, anyway, to satiate you for a while._

It's wise to note that, for the second section of this chapter, I was using a turn of the century (as in 1900, not 2000) map of Paris, as found in the "Moulin Rouge" behind-the-scenes book. My geography IS slightly off, but from the view I described in chapter one, I figured they'd have to live somewhere in the East. And this particular map has most of the small street names missing, as well as most of the streets themselves. It's as close as I get to researching ;)

This is the tricky conversation I've been dreading, and with good reason. Bloody thing plainly refuses to be any good, and hence there's rather a lot of Raoul in this bit. If I gain a RaoulMuse, I shall be most displeased... Anyway. Enjoy. :)

PART SEVEN

There was no sound in the lavish room save for the ticking of the clock, which now seemed an ominous drumbeat as Christine realised she was fighting against time and would most likely lose. Erik's dark expression hadn't faltered; her determination had wavered slightly, she knew, her own features dropping in dismay at his impending dismissal. All of her plans of their sitting down like adults to have a civilised conversation swiftly blew away, since Erik was plainly determined to be childish about the matter. But then, Erik had never been one to get through a situation easily. She'd hoped, in the years that had passed, that he might have grown out of that tendency.

When she still hadn't offered him his 'adequate explanation', he folded his arms across his chest, slowly, and said, pointedly, "Well?"

Her resolve - and her initial plan of trying to be mature - cracked. "Oh, for goodness' sake. You mean I have only one minute for every year we've been apart to try and explain myself?"

He glanced at the clock nonchalantly. "You now have one minute less."

"You're impossible," she said, firmly planting herself in the armchair once more, "and I have no intention whatsoever of leaving in fourteen minutes."

"So," he said, "you're going to grant me the courtesy of recounting fifteen years of your life. Why, thank you." His sarcasm wasn't guarded in the slightest, and nor was the bitterness underlying his tone. "I hope you won't be too perturbed if I don't return the favour. I very much doubt that my existence is as scintillating as that of a Vicomtess."

_Don't be so sure of that_, she thought. Erik wanted a fight, quite obviously, and she was almost willing to give him one, except it wouldn't really help much in the long run. Instead, she decided to be the voice of reason and logic - as he clearly had no intention at the moment to be either of these - and tried to think of a way to initiate a polite and sensible conversation, rather than one comprising scathing remarks and sarcasm.

She glared in his direction until he conceded defeat and sat down. It wasn't polite to tower over her, anyway, especially since she seemed determined to talk. A few more seconds of stony silence passed, while Christine tried to sort through her rambling thoughts and pinpoint the exact moment the night before when she'd decided to flee the safety of the chateau. It was impossible, she realised, since it hadn't really been a conscious decision. She remembered seeing the man in the street - whom, on reflection, couldn't have been Erik despite the familiarity of his gaze - and then nothing, until she was downstairs throwing on her cloak, rushing into the night.

She stared determinedly at her hands, trying to avoid the cynical stare he was giving her, and concentrated on the sounds and other sensations in the room. The clock continued to tick her time away - she wondered if she could sit there for the full fourteen minutes (or was it more like twelve now?) and if he really would throw her out when it had elapsed - and the fire crackled, devouring old wood. Nearby, Ayesha let out a low, practically inaudible growl at Christine's continued presence in her home. The odour of Russian tea still permeated; the smoky smell of the fireplace; the mustiness of the vast collection of books and manuscripts. And beyond it all, when she concentrated, deep down, she felt safe, and, moreover, she realised she'd only ever felt safe in this place. At home - if she even dared to call the large town house 'home' - she seemed always to be on edge, more so of late than any time before. Erik's underground house held plenty of bad memories - many of them including her being scared out of her wits, for no good reason - but nevertheless, it felt more like home than any other place in the world.

She finally looked up. He was still staring at her, his gaze not faltering in the slightest. After fifteen years, he no longer made her uneasy under his scrutiny. "If you think you are going to intimidate me, monsieur," she said, "then I would think again." She cringed internally at the forced civility, as he seemed to do. She longed to call him 'Erik', for him to use the 'my dear' she'd grown so accustomed to, but it wasn't the time. "A lot has changed where I am concerned."

"So I see," he said, "although apparently not your tendency to panic when cornered."

She glowered at him. His tone was only mildly jovial. As far as she was concerned, her frantic attempt to get through the wall had been _his_ fault, for moving the door in the first place. She was above petty quarrelling, however, and ignored his remark. "Do you want to know why I'm here, or not?"

He stopped himself before he could blurt out how much he _did_ want to know her reasons. "I am curious, yes."

"That makes two of us," she admitted. He gave her a questioning glance, caught off guard and not trusting his voice to say anything sensible. With a sigh, she explained, "I don't honestly know why I'm here. I was… I was reading in the library at the house and the next thing I knew, I was running back here."

There was a brief pause while he made sense of this information. "What book was it?" he asked, apparently randomly.

She shrugged. "I don't remember."

"That's a pity. I was going to suggest we stop the publication, if it means hoards of women are going to flock here and invade my privacy after reading it." Christine smiled in spite of herself. This was the Erik she was used to, the banter she could cope with, not the cold, critical Erik of a few minutes ago. Unfortunately, that Erik was back again, the amusement factor of her predicament replaced by the seriousness of the situation. While he seemed to accept that she didn't know why she had come, there was something else irking him. "What I'd like to know is," he said, "quite how you even knew I was alive."

Christine almost laughed. She'd honestly thought he'd have realised by now that she knew he wasn't dead. "I've known for the past fifteen years…"

~*~

In his study, Raoul had spread out a large, out-dated street map on his desk. On the floor surrounding it lay various objects that he'd haphazardly strewn out of the way to accommodate the large piece of paper, but he didn't bother himself with the mess for the moment. He was trying to locate the street that Jean had mentioned, but was finding it tricky. It wasn't a familiar name to him, and he was absolutely certain he'd never even been down the Rue Lafayette in his life, but if it led to Christine's whereabouts, then he was determined to find it.

The map was proving rather unhelpful. Many of the streets were unlabelled, for starters, and it was so old that there were new roads and buildings missing from it. If the one he was searching for was a back alley, then it would be impossible to find short of going out into the streets and asking for directions. He hoped it wouldn't come to that.

He scanned the charted lines in a somewhat random fashion, becoming increasingly more desperate. Paris was huge, for God's sake! How was he supposed to find a street he'd never heard of?

Resisting the urge to rip the map into shreds, he took a deep breath and began to think more logically. Panicking wouldn't help anybody. If Jean had seen Christine the night before, then she couldn't have gotten very far. He found the nearest main street to theirs - the Boulevard de Strasbourg - which was, thankfully, on the map, and set about searching in the immediate vicinity for the Rue Lafayette.

He found it with very little trouble after that. It was practically neighbouring, but in the opposite direction to where Raoul was usually going. This only heightened his curiosity, however; what possible reason would Christine have to be going that way? He followed it with one finger, and froze. _Oh, my God. No._

The map was devoid of landmarks, but he knew the street names well enough, now. Or rather, he knew that particular junction of streets. His fingertip came to rest on the corner of the Rues Glück and Scribe. The Opéra. He suddenly felt light-headed, and sat down, his hand never leaving the map in front of him. With his other hand, he traced their usual route to Christine's place of work, along a more direct route. That ended up by the front entrance. The Rue Lafayette would have brought her straight to the back door. Which begged the question: why?

Raoul's immediate thought was to go running after her, but the rain had yet to clear up, and he doubted he'd be able to remember the way in through the passages, after all this time. There were also no rehearsals or performances scheduled that day, and he was unlikely to be let in through the front door, either. His fists clenched around the edge of the map as he tried to contain his rising anger and panic. His wife had gone running off into the night, back to the monster who'd tried to kill him, and right now, there was nothing he could do about it.

~*~

To his credit, Erik reacted to her admittance incredibly well. He didn't trust himself to speak, at first, not entirely certain if she was attempting to be amusing. Her level gaze, however, seemed to imply she was very serious. He lowered himself into a chair before his suddenly weak knees could cast him to the floor, and waited for her to explain further. Nothing was forthcoming; when he finally dared to look at her, she was staring at her slippered feet with all the tenacity of a child who was about to be scolded.

"Christine…" Her name fell from his lips before he could think about it. She looked up slightly to acknowledge that she had heard him, and stared at him from beneath her eyelashes, most of her face obscured by cascading hair. "How did you know?"

It was a perfectly valid and simple question, and he had a right to ask it. There was no malice, no bitterness, just curiosity. She felt tears stinging her eyes, and it took her several seconds to work out why. After so many years, his voice still had the same effect over her, and when he said her name like that… it was all she could do not to start crying. She managed to compose herself a little, and lifted her head further so he could see her, although she made no effort to move her hair away from her face.

"It… it was on the night of my first performance as the Opera's new First Lady," she explained. "I saw you, sitting up in the gods. I almost didn't believe it, at first. When you didn't return for the next performance, I thought I'd imagined it… until the next premiere."

Of course, he'd tried to be careful over the years, so she wouldn't see him. He knew she'd spotted him that first time, and thought he'd made sure it wouldn't happen again. It seemed, however, that Christine had been determined to prove herself right, and no amount of surreptitious observing and heavy cloaks would have helped conceal him. He met her eyes, as best he could considering her suddenly nervous stance; she seemed to challenge him to deny it.

"I see," he said, slowly. "And here I thought I was being careful not to be seen. Obviously, I was wrong."

Christine considered something, as she reminisced about that first night's performance. She could see no obvious reason why Erik would appear at the Opera in public, especially if it wasn't one of his own pieces being performed; he avoided people, in the main, like the plague. In which case…

"It was yours, wasn't it?" she asked. He gave her a confused expression, since the question had seemingly emerged out of nowhere, and she explained, "The opera, that night. It was yours."

He shrugged nonchalantly. "And what if it was? Does that matter?"

"Oh, it matters. It matters very much indeed."

_To be continued..._

_**A/N:** Argh. Sorry about that. My inspiration is running very low. I'm working on Part Eight as we speak. If you're lucky, I might actually get to the song soon ;) Oh, and while I'm here, I thought I'd mention that I have absolutely no idea what I'm going to do with that damn Vicomte. Any suggestions?_


	8. Part Eight

**SWEET INTOXICATION**

_**Disclaimer, etc. as before.  
A/N:** Apologies once again for the delay. My Muses have gone and dried up on me - and considering I have 8 of the buggers, you see my predicament… Amazingly, I now have something resembling a plot figured out in my head, so I do know how this is going to end, I just don't know when, exactly. And I finally gave that head maid a name - it's unoriginal, but it was the best I could do, under the circumstances. I'm also being far too fair to Raoul, for which I apologise, but I felt like giving the guy some credit(as well as a brain) for once. Raoul-bashers can poke me to their heart's content, but at least it's still E/C. Anyway, let's see how good everybody's memory is for the end of the last chapter…_

PART EIGHT

"Oh, it matters! It matters very much indeed!"

"But sir, I don't quite see-"

"Don't you understand?!" Raoul was becoming increasingly frustrated by the lack of comprehension of his staff, and was currently pacing the library with more fervour than before. "Don't you see what this means?"

It was the head maid who saved the unfortunate page from his master's ramblings, as she entered the room and calmly, but dominatingly, stood in the doorway of the room. "If Monsieur will calm himself," she suggested, "I will see if I can understand." The page made a swift exit, leaving her to handle the situation.

Raoul stopped pacing, took a deep breath, and turned to face his senior member of staff. "I apologise, Marie," he said. "But this is… most distressing."

"That much is obvious," she said. "Why don't you sit down, have a nice, calming drink, and explain to me what is wrong? And then, perhaps we can see what can be done about it."

"I think I shall…" he muttered, and sought out a chair. Marie went to a nearby cabinet, set a decanter and a glass on a tray, and brought it over to him, placing it on a small table beside the chair. Raoul poured himself a drink, and downed it gratefully, before replacing the glass on the table again, allowing the liquor to calm him.

"Now, sir," she said. "Would you care to explain?"

"Yes… That Monsieur Rénard, he told me he'd seen Christine, heading towards a certain Rue Lafayette. The name wasn't familiar to me, at first, but I've pinpointed it on the map; it leads right to the Opéra. It _must_ be where she has gone."

"Well, it is her place of employment, Monsieur-"

"I know that!" He calmed himself again; shouting would get him nowhere. "But _why_ would she be going there at such an hour, and in this weather, if not for…" He trailed off.

"If not for what?" asked the maid, genuinely curious. The staff of the chateau knew little to nothing about where the Chagny couple had lived, or what they had experienced, before they married, since Raoul had never divulged any information, and had strictly forbidden Christine to talk about it. While it was true that she'd disobeyed that instruction on occasion and told her maid some stories about the Opéra, there was nothing specific that might suggest any importance about the place, other than the obvious.

Raoul's expression became suddenly very melancholy, making him look older than his years. The memory of something dark and unwanted, of something he was unable to fight, seemed to wash over him as he explained, "If not for him…"

~*~

A strange silence permeated the room; Christine noted with some amusement that she'd managed to stun Erik speechless twice in the same conversation. She watched him, still a little cautious of his earlier bitterness, as he struggled not to ask the question he was desperate to know the answer to. He was too stubborn to give in to his curiosity.

She risked a glance to the clock on the mantle piece. "It appears," she said, challenging him, " that my fifteen minute time limit is over."

"Oh, _damn_ the time limit," he replied, leaning forwards to place his head in his hands. In a few short moments, she'd managed to turn his existence upside-down again, just like she'd done all those years ago. He spoke again from within the cavern of his domed hands, his voice a little muffled, but the words clear nonetheless. "Do you think I'm concerned with that, now?"

"I was under the impression, _Monsieur_," she said, stressing the title a little contemptuously, "that my presence here was unwelcome."

Frustrated, he rose from the chair and faced her, using his height to his advantage as he tried to appear threatening. Christine instinctively cowered slightly, crushing herself into the chair-back, although her gaze did not leave his. "Stop being so bloody evasive and tell me what you mean!" he demanded.

His outburst was rather comical, really, even though laughter would not have been a good idea, under the circumstances. He was behaving like a spoilt child, albeit a very tall and dangerous one, if provoked. She was pleased to realise that his temperament hadn't changed in the slightest, and that she could still frustrate him to such a degree. It was for this reason that she remained silent a good few seconds longer than was necessary.

When she did speak, she made sure to maintain eye contact. If he was going to be petulant, then she would have to prove that she was the mature one. "I will," she said, levelly, "when you ask me in a civilised manner."

He relaxed his stance slightly, letting out a defeated sigh. Turning, he went back to the chair he'd been occupying, and sat down slowly. "You are right, of course. I apologise." The words were not heartfelt, and she doubted he meant them; she didn't mention it. "Now, if you please… kindly explain yourself."

Christine calmed herself, taking a deep breath. If their conversation had started off amicably - even _normally_ - then explaining her presence, her reasoning, and her inner torment would be easy. As it was, Erik had not made anything easy for her in the slightest. "All right," she said. "But I cannot promise what I say will make perfect sense."

"We will cross that bridge when we come to it, I'm sure."

_'The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn…' _ Oh, _why_ had he chosen that phrase? As if Christine merely being there wasn't torturous enough, the memory had to stir of that fateful night so many years ago… It was too late to take it back; she seemed blissfully unaffected by his slip-up, so he let her talk. Compared to their harsh words and biting sarcasm before, she was very quiet and subdued, almost melancholy, as she recounted her explanation.

"That opening night," she explained, "was truly glorious. Nobody expected me to return to the cast, after everything that happened, and especially considering my…" - she stopped herself before she could say the word 'marriage' - "…circumstances. So when I agreed to take the lead in the new opera, naturally, the management were ecstatic. The opera… the arias, the character, everything about it… was as though it had been written for me. Everybody said so, even before I'd accepted the role; it's hardly surprising they were so pleased when I did." She smiled a little. "My God, I felt so treacherous. I had thought never again to find another composer who knew my very soul, like you did. And yet, here was this new opera, from an up and coming new composer whom nobody had even heard of before then, who seemed to know me better than I knew myself." She shook her head at herself, wondering how she could have been so blind at first. "I should have guessed immediately, shouldn't I? Except… after _L'Epoque_…"

Christine stopped, then, unable to find the words. The thought, at the time, that he was dead, had been too much to bear. The memory of those simple words in the paper - "_Erik est mort_" - still sent chills through her, despite the fact that he was very much alive in front of her. Perhaps sensing her inner torment about the subject, Erik broke in, softly. "Ah. Yes. I must say, Nadir did a fine job, there…"

She nodded, as if she'd really known all along; maybe, in some way, she had. She would have told herself anything to make the intense feeling of loss go away. With a small sigh, she continued. "I believed it, of course, along with everyone else. I didn't _want_ to believe it. I spent so long trying to convince myself that it wasn't real. By the time opening night came around, I'd convinced myself it had to be true - after all, why would they lie about such a thing, knowing your notoriety? And if you were dead to me - indeed, to the entire Opéra Populaire - then how was I to associate the music to you?" Pausing a moment, she brought the opera to mind again; it hadn't been performed for a while, but she remembered it as if it were yesterday. "May I say you did a wonderful job of disguising yourself…?"

"Well," he said, "that was the entire point." As an afterthought, he added, "But… thank you."

She accepted his gratitude with a gesture of her head, and continued. "When I spotted you that night, I almost didn't believe it. I'd spent so long accepting that I'd never see you again; spotting you shattered that belief instantly, as if it had never been instilled in me at all. But still, I didn't associate the opera to you. It certainly does explain why it suited me so well."

Erik nodded, absently. He'd listened to her account of that time, but it sounded unfamiliar; to hear about the night, and his fake death, from her perspective was most bizarre. He'd realised, several minutes ago, that to continue their conversation in the same manner as they'd begun would not get them anywhere. Civility was called for, and honesty. If it meant baring their souls, then so be it, but he was damned if he was going to let her leave without some kind of explanation.

He dreaded the truth: that even if she explained herself, he'd still never be able to let her go.

It wasn't the time to dwell on what was to come, however. With the change of tact in mind, he buried all of his assumed bitterness, and said, "I've only ever written for you, Christine. Even before we met, when I was composing for imaginary angels… even after _Don Juan_, when I'd sworn never to write another note again… everything has been for you."

She was momentarily taken aback by the softness of his tone, after the way things had been progressing. It was preferable, though; she wasn't sure how much longer she could have kept up her own icy façade without bursting into involuntary, hysterical tears. With her voice similarly soft, she replied, "Well, that's reassuring to know. Every one of my opening nights has been sung with you in mind… Mostly," she admitted, "wishing you were around to help me make the arias perfect…" With a self-deprecatory laugh, she added, "Do you know, I often toyed with singing them off-pitch, to see if you would come to me…"

Erik was shocked. To think that she'd _wanted_ him to visit her again, all this time, when he'd been fighting that very urge. It seemed they'd been avoiding each other for fifteen years, with no apparent reason to do so. Realising that his expression was reflecting that shock, he quickly thought of something to say that would sound appropriate. "I should hope," he said, "that you did not follow through with that plan."

"Of course not," she told him. "My curiosity was not great enough to put my career in jeopardy. Besides, I had hoped that if there were something wrong with my performance, you might…" Again, she let the sentence trail off. That he might what? Start the cycle all over again by drawing her through the mirror once more? Whatever part of her it was that longed for the old days was constantly drowned out by innate, ingrained loyalty to her husband, despite everything her heart continued to scream at her.

Silence fell in the room; by now, it was starting to seem like a natural occurrence. Had their conversations always been this awkward? Erik could think of nothing to say to her after her last admittance, and Christine was unable to continue - nothing seemed appropriate now that they'd cleared up that area of the past. Everything that had happened in-between that opening performance and this cold, stormy night was of no concern to either of them; they'd spent the entire period voluntarily avoiding each other, each wishing the other would come forward.

~*~

Rather reluctantly, Raoul had needed to recount the events of 1881 to Marie. He had briefly considered omitting certain details, but realised it would only lead to questions later, and had instead told the entire story from as early as he could remember being involved. Despite all of his best efforts to block the memories of those few months, he found himself remembering it all as if it had only occurred yesterday.

Marie listened to the story intently, resisting the urge to comment throughout. When Raoul had finished, she gave him a few moments to recuperate, and herself some time to get all of the facts together in her mind. Raoul took another drink, with some relief, and gave her an expectant look. After a while's thought, she nodded, slowly, understanding. One thing, however, was still bothering her.

"That's a very… interesting account, Monsieur," she said, "and had it come from anyone else, I would not believe it."

"I admit, it does sound farfetched. If I hadn't lived it…"

Marie nodded again. "If you will pardon me, though, there is still one thing I am… unclear about."

"Yes?"

"Christine - I mean, Madame - did she… did she love this Erik?"

Raoul let out a very long sigh, and leant forwards to rub away the headache he could start to feel forming. "Oh, of _course_ she did. I realise that much now." He got up, and walked over to the window, where he stared out at nothing in particular. "He died less than a month after it all; it was announced in _L'Epoque_. Christine was… well, perhaps not devastated, but the news certainly affected her strongly. She became introverted, refused to talk to anyone. It took Meg and I months to get through to her."

"I see," said Marie, slowly. "But if Erik is dead, then why would she be returning to his house? You said it was destroyed."

"As far as I know, it was. Nobody has seen nor heard from Erik since we left him there, but… but Marie, I know that no matter how dead he may appear to be, there is every chance he is very much alive."

"And if Christine believes that…" she said, finishing his reasoning.

"Precisely." He stifled a groan of defeat. "And to go back to your original question, yes, she did love him. It is beyond my comprehension as to why, when she recounted to me how very scared she was of him, but she loved him more than any of us ever knew." He seemed to have accepted this fact with little argument, as just something their marriage had overcome with time. As far as anyone was concerned, Erik was dead - and Raoul could hardly accuse her of anything solidly, if she was in love with a dead man. "What worries me," he continued, his tone bleak, "is that she not only believes he is alive, but _still_ loves him."

"But she is _your_ wife!" argued Marie, vehemently, if a little pointlessly. "Surely she must realise what she is doing is wrong." Marie was trying to be a voice of logic for her employer, but her heart yearned for Christine, for everything the woman had gone through fifteen years ago. The story of the three of them and their entangling web of love and fear had stirred great sympathy within the older woman, and, although she knew it was treacherous to think it, some part of her wished Christine had stayed with Erik.

Raoul began to pace a little, heading away from the window once more and towards the centre of the room. "I know that," he said, "and I am sure Christine does, too." His tone was sarcastic, but he was unable to control it. "And just as I know she loves me, in her own way, it doesn't even begin to compare." He sighed again; there was one other detail he'd forgotten to mention earlier. "You must understand, Marie," he explained. "Erik never knew. He made her choose between us that night, and even though he was her choice, he let me take her away. He only ever saw that choice as being to save me."

He sank, defeated, into the chair again. His hatred for Erik had long since dissipated, once he'd realised how Christine felt. He was almost sympathetic; he knew what it was like to love Christine, and they'd both had to fight for her affections. In some ironic way, they might have been friends, had stubbornness and jealousy not gotten in the way - he was sure she would have loved that, too. The mistakes of years ago could not be fixed, however, and at the present moment, he was in a predicament he'd only dreaded before now.

Marie placed a cautious, but supportive, hand on his shoulder. "Monsieur, I know my advice will probably be of no use to you. After all, this is entirely new to me. But it seems to me that if Madame never told this Erik her feelings, then… then perhaps that is all she has gone to do."

"Perhaps so," he agreed. "I only hope she can resist the lure of finding out… what it might have been like, had she stayed."

"It's nearly been a day," she said, "which is quite long enough for a taste of an alternate life, if you will excuse my saying so. If you love her-"

"Of _course_ I love her!"

"Well, then, if so, you must fetch her back."

Raoul said nothing, merely looked up. Marie was right, and he knew it. The search party he had sent out had still not returned, and he had given them strict orders to only come back with Christine in tow. The only way he was going to get her back now would be to go under the Opéra himself and confront Erik once more. He could only hope that the years had mellowed his murderous streak, and that Christine was willing to leave her Angel a second time.

It was the latter that worried him the most.

_To be continued..._

_**A/N:** So, it seems Raoul is going to try and be a hero. To tell you whether he succeeds or not would ruin my (hopefully) surprise ending, so I won't say more. Reviews'd be nice, though, if it's not too much trouble._


	9. Part Nine

**SWEET INTOXICATION**

_**Disclaimer as before.  
A/N:** I'm going to fix up an auto-type function to put "Sorry for the delay", since I seem to start all my chapters with it. Anyway. I am. So yes. This one has - well, obviously - more conversation between Erik and Christine, which still appears to be going nowhere at all, and… probably more Raoul, but I'll try to balance it out so there's less of him by comparison. He's had his special moment for now…_

I apologise for the vaguely religious undertone of the start of the chapter; I have no idea where it came from, but it sounded good in my head. Apologies again for the horrible phonetic spelling; I liked my Françoise character, so I brought her back… =)

PART NINE

She wondered if it were possible to drag out the conversation any longer; they seemed to have been talking for hours, although she knew that, logically, it was only minutes. His threatened fifteen minutes had elapsed, however, and she knew she'd heard the clock chime the hour at some point. With all the reminiscing they'd been doing, Christine wondered if she would ever get to the point. She'd travelled here for one reason, and one only, and their discussion about the past did not seem to be leading anywhere helpful. She had no idea exactly how long she'd been gone from the de Chagny house; she'd woken in Erik's living room just before noon, and she had a vague recollection of it being one o'clock in the morning when she left.

The realisation that Raoul had to be worried sick entered her mind briefly, but it was almost immediately dispelled a second or so later, when she remembered why she had come. She had no idea of what could happen, nor even what she was going to say, exactly, and she could only hope that Erik would listen and believe her.

It was he who broke through the silence. His voice was quiet, his tone nervous; somehow, it made her feel more at ease. If his guard was down, he was considerably easier to talk to, because she could detect - more or less - what he was thinking through his mannerisms. "Christine," he asked, "what would you have done… if I had visited you again?"

She was surprised by the directness of the question. Erik usually wasn't one for getting to the point, but, she supposed, the answer to the query was important to him. It was important to both of them. She gave the matter some thought; she'd never honestly considered it before now. "Well… that depends," she said.

"On what?"

"On whether you came as yourself… or as the Angel of Music…"

He seemed slightly taken aback by the answer. It was decidedly cryptic, and he wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. "Which would you have preferred?" he asked, carefully. He was skating on very thin ice, and he hadn't yet decided which option he wanted her to choose. But then, he supposed that Christine would be able to explain away either of them…

"I don't believe it matters, either way," she said, cautiously. "If you'd chosen to be the Angel of Music, it would have been your prerogative. You are my Angel of Music, and always have been, even after I discovered your true identity."

He was surprised by her diplomatic answer, and touched that she still thought of him that way, even after so many years apart. "Rather an Angel," he surmised on her behalf, smiling a little, "than a Phantom… am I right?"

"No," she corrected, her tone sincere, as she looked him in the eye. "Rather an Angel than a nameless voice behind a mirror… and, I suppose, in your case, rather a Phantom than a man."

He raised an eyebrow; when had she grown to know him so well? However, if anyone had the right to know him, it was Christine; while it was true that Nadir knew him better than he knew himself, often infuriatingly so at times, it was also true that Christine was far more observant and presumptuous than he'd originally thought. After all, how long had she spent in his presence? How many duets had they sung together? The days she'd stayed with him were long ago, but, despite everything, he remembered every second of them.

Christine was careful to keep her face expressionless, lest her eyes betray the truth before her voice did. Already, her mouth had run away with her, providing Erik with cryptic answers and suppositions she didn't even realise she knew. It was liberating, in a way. With Raoul and his friends, she had to be constantly aware of everything she said, always planning ahead, checking to make sure her words were appropriate. Even after fifteen years of marriage, and longer still in Paris, her nomadic roots plainly refused to be buried. Shyness overcame most of her innate outspoken tendencies, but frustration would bring them to the fore. And yet here, with Erik, she spoke without thinking; here, a place where she had feared for her life - _how stupid I was!_ - she let her heart do the thinking for her.

Erik began to wander the room, a sure sign that he was getting uncomfortable with the conversation, and refused to meet her steady gaze as he spoke. "There is no more Phantom," he told her. "He perished beneath the rubble of my house, and has not been resurrected." At this point, he stopped, and faced her, his eyes coming to rest on the small crucifix around her neck. Self-consciously, she hid it with one hand as he continued, "After all, it would hardly befit such a… malevolent presence to emulate Christ, now, would it?"

"But… an Angel…" Where that had come from, she didn't know. Perhaps some part of her still yearned for an Angel to visit at night, whether to teach her or keep her company.

"Ah, yes. An Angel. That's a very different matter…" His tone was lightly humorous, but it quickly changed as Erik sighed and ran a hand over his face. He shook his head lightly, defeatedly, turning away from her. "And as for this matter…" he said, changing the subject back to the one in hand. "It appears to be going nowhere. You still haven't explained why you're here."

"No," she agreed, averting her gaze suddenly, "I suppose I haven't."

He didn't appear to hear her, or was determined to make his point. "Now, I will appreciate that your reasoning was not… logical, or even conscious. But I will not accept that there's no reason for you to be here. It is hardly clement weather for a stroll, and a woman of your status should most certainly not be wandering the streets of Paris alone in the middle of the night."

"I know-" she began, before he interrupted her.

"Which, therefore, begs the question - why?"

Christine was now at a loss. The answer was obvious, and she knew, in her heart, that it was the only answer either of them would ever need… but in his current sceptical state, she doubted Erik would even believe her. She could feel the earlier defensiveness and hostility creeping back into the room, and dreaded it. He was impossible to talk to when he was like that, and their conversation had been going better, if not well, since the discussion about the premiere performance.

The past, then, was a safe topic, so long as it didn't concern Raoul (she got the distinct impression that, despite the years that had passed, Erik might still hold a grudge.) The present was another matter entirely. She was still unsure as to whether he was comfortable on a first-name basis; he'd called her 'Christine', but she suspected it was merely a moment of weakness.

She attempted to gather her thoughts before she spoke. It didn't take long; there really wasn't that much to think about. Determined once more to prove herself, she raised her head again. She took a deep, healthy breath, and addressed him as she had been doing all day. "All right, Monsieur de- oh, this is ridiculous!" Christine sighed frustratedly. Conversation was impossible if she needed to stick to formality. She managed to take a single step towards him, and say the first syllable of his name, before he raised a hand to stop her. "Er-"

"No!" She halted in her tracks, failing to stop her confused expression from emerging. Erik lowered his voice again and attempted to explain. "I apologise; I didn't mean to startle you like that. But you must understand…"

He faltered; she took another tentative step, trying to encourage whatever he was going to say. "What…? What must I understand?"

For the first time, he looked at her, really looked at her, and she realised that for her entire visit he'd been half-averting his gaze. Instantly, she knew why, as he must have anticipated she would. The look in his eyes was undeniably the same as it had been so many years ago; his feelings had not diminished in the slightest, just as hers had grown to almost unbearable proportions. Their eyes met, for the first time since she'd arrived, and his gaze burnt into her own, piercing her soul.

The room became very small and tight; she felt the walls start to close in around her for no apparently feasible reason. Her heart banged against her ribcage, to such a degree that she thought it would fly out of her chest, just as she was certain Erik could hear it pounding. Blood rushed to her head, clouding her hearing, and in the next moment, Erik and his surroundings vanished into the darkness, as the floor came rising to meet her…

~*~

The rain had dwindled a little, but still fell heavily; Raoul no longer cared about the weather, however, as he hurried Marie into a carriage with a sense of urgency. Once she was settled in, he ran back to the house - with a valet desperately attempting to keep up with him with an umbrella - and addressed the rather nervous-looking maid who was standing in the porch. She was wringing her hands tenaciously, awaiting instructions.

"Françoise," he said, "I understand Marie has left you in charge in her absence."

"Yes, sir," she answered, curtseying a little.

"Good. You know the workings of the house, I trust? You can handle this responsibility?"

She bowed her head in acknowledgement. "Marie said I was to look after the 'ouse, sir, yes. I knows what 'appens and such."

"Well, don't look so nervous, for goodness' sake," he said. "If anyone should be nervous, it's me."

"I'm sorry, sir, it's jus'… Well, I've never 'ad such a responsibili'y before. I don' wan' to do nuffin wrong, nor to le' you down, sir." Françoise certainly did look very anxious about her impending status, but clearly Marie had faith in her, and Raoul had never known his head of staff to err in judgement.

"I'm sure you'll be fine, Françoise," he reassured her. "And with any luck, Marie and I will not be gone for very long."

She nodded. "Awight, sir. I'll see you soon, 'opefully wiv Madame a' your side."

"Yes," muttered Raoul, absently, "hopefully, you shall…"

He nodded to the other assembled members of staff, and they departed; Françoise curtseyed politely and waited for her employer to enter the carriage, and the valet to return, before closing the door. The Vicomte's carriage rolled off into the rising mist and pelting rain, before disappearing entirely. The page, Alain, opened the door again to shake out the umbrella, before putting it to dry in a stand in the hallway.

"I wish I knew where he'd gone gallivanting off to," he muttered, straightening his coat.

Françoise straightened up, adopting a more professional pose. "I' ain't my place to say," she told him, "and I were told in the strictest confidence."

"Oh? And what were you told?" he asked, persuasively. Françoise looked about to give in and tell him, but caught herself.

"I'm not tellin'. No' tha' I know very much."

The two headed towards the kitchen; despite both master and mistress being absent, there was plenty of 'behind-the-scene's work to be completed, and Raoul would expect to return to a clean house, nevertheless. "It's to do with Madame, isn't it?" asked Alain, an edge of concern to his tone. "Because of her disappearance." Françoise said nothing, but she didn't need to; her expression gave it away. "Lord, I hope he finds her. I've never known the master so…"

"Mad?"

"Far be it for me to say so, but yes. Madame Christine brings a little sanity to this place, if nothing else…"

~*~

She awoke, for the second time, on Erik's sofa, but this time there was no sound of music in the room to aid her ascent into consciousness. Rather, she could only hear a faint shuffling, back and forth, back and forth, which she eventually worked out was Erik pacing the floor behind her. Sitting up, she realised her head was still a little woozy, and brought a hand to her forehead for a few seconds; the movement, however, alerted Erik to her presence, and he ceased his pacing to watch her.

She brought her hand down again, and began to stand up. His voice stopped her. "I wouldn't do that just yet, if I were you. You took rather a tumble."

Realising he was probably right, she stayed put. This felt rather like starting again; maybe this time, she'd be able to do what she came here for in the first place. "What happened?" she asked, knowing it was a very silly question, but slightly curious nonetheless since she didn't really remember falling asleep.

"You fainted," he said, matter-of-factly. "I think it might be too warm in here, perhaps… Either that or your jaunt in the rain has given you pneumonia, which would serve you right."

She frowned. "Kindly stop addressing me as if I were a child." Suitably chastised, he said nothing more, merely gestured apologetically. They were indeed starting again, in exactly the same manner as before. It was up to Christine to turn the conversational tone back to the truthful, heartfelt one they'd almost reached before her fainting episode. Racking her brain a moment, she tried to remember what had caused it.

Oh, yes. She'd finally known the truth Erik was unable to say, and then, she'd collapsed, but even that didn't truly explain it. Perhaps it was her mind's way of telling her to try again, by shutting itself off completely and gaining some time to regroup her thoughts. She felt far from light-headed now, and oddly refreshed.

"I suppose next you'll be telling me I hit my head when I fell," she said.

"That won't be necessary," he told her, just nonchalantly enough that she nearly missed his next words: "since I managed to catch you before you hit the ground. Do you really think I'd let you fall?"

"I… I suppose not," she mumbled, although her thoughts were saying something else. _Oh, but you did let me fall, Erik… You let me fall from your grasp, and you let me fall in love with you._ She shook her head to clear it; it wouldn't do to start lingering on romantic notions that might never occur. The ticking of the clock continued to mark the minutes that passed, and she was struck with a sudden sense of urgency.

Christine turned in her seat so she could face him more fully. "I don't think I have much time here."

He frowned, a little confused at her wording - she made it sound as if she was dying. "Are you planning on leaving?" he asked. "After all the fuss you made about staying?"

"No… it isn't that. I just have a feeling that I may be forced to leave…" She glanced at the clock again, nervously, then returned her gaze to him. "I did come here for a purpose," she said, "and by God, I intend to fulfil it." She swallowed a lump she could feel in her throat. Having finally made the conscious decision to tell him how she felt - and after fifteen years, it would certainly be a relief - she was suddenly terrified. Not of telling him, merely that he wouldn't believe her once she had.

She looked deep within herself, seeking courage beyond anything she'd ever needed before. She trudged through years of memories, each the same as the last for every year she'd lived as a Vicomtess, until she reached that fateful night after _Don Juan Triumphant_. From within the cocoon of her mind, she unravelled as much as she could remember of her experiences with Erik: the voice behind the mirror; the journey across the lake; the revelation of the truth; the choice she'd been forced to make. She remembered her fear with ironic bitterness, mentally chastising her younger self as though she were a separate entity entirely, and, finally, she came to a small collection of memories that she'd filed safely away - repressed, almost - so that nobody else could interfere with them. There had been good times; they were few, but precious. Duets sung late into the night; long conversations about his travels; the evenings she'd spent sitting at his feet while he read to her, or told her ancient stories.

These had been the times, she knew, years later, when she'd loved him. At the time, she'd merely thought it was a lack of fear. When she reflected, she realised it was a childlike, selfish sort of love, based purely on the basis that he was being nice to her - if only she'd known then how much of a struggle it was for him to ever push her away - but when she thought about those times again, and again, over and over… that was when she finally knew. After _Don Juan_, after he'd sacrificed everything just to let her go, after the kiss that changed everything beyond recognition… she knew. And now it was time he did, too.

"Erik…"

_To be continued..._

_**A/N:** Oh, yes, I'm evil. Uh-huh. Oh, come on. You thought I'd let you have it this chapter? Suspense, my dears, suspense... _


	10. Part Ten

**SWEET INTOXICATION**

_**A/N:** You know the drill… ;) I'd like to apologise for the horrible cliffhanger last chapter. I'd like to, but I won't. :P Cliffhangers are my friend. I'd also just like to say that this time the delay wasn't entirely my fault - we've had no internet access in halls of residence, so any uploading/downloading/email/livejournalling, etc. have been done at university, which is Not Fun, by any stretch of the imagination. That, and I've been annoyingly uninspired, as usual. Anyway, hopefully this time Christine'll get around to saying something; you know, I still haven't got to the song part of this fic yet, and considering that it was meant to be a short fic, I should really get to it at some point… I estimate there'll be about 5 more chapters. Although the last time I said that, I ended up writing 15… Oy._

Without further ado, enjoy.

Part Ten

The carriage sped through the rainy Parisian streets, surprising the few pedestrians it passed. The de Chagnies' driver implored for them to slow because of the slippery, dangerous roads, but Raoul insisted they keep their speed going, if they were to be in with any chance of gaining lost time. The journey to the Opéra usually passed quickly, or so it would seem, from years of having to take it; this time, it seemed very heavy-going indeed, each extra yard seeming a mile.

It was a Sunday, and there was every likelihood that the Opéra was closed for the day - no rehearsals, no performances, and probably no staff. Raoul did not remember the location of the gate that led to Erik's underground lair, but for the moment, he was not concerning himself with it. His first plan of action was to see if there was anyone in the building who might have seen Christine, or, perhaps, Christine herself, as lost as he.

Finally, the carriage drew to a halt outside the grand façade of the Opéra. Raoul instructed his driver, and Marie, to wait, and leapt from the vehicle. He sprinted through the rain until he reached the doors, and found them, unsurprisingly, to be locked. He knocked a few times just to ascertain that there was nobody around, and then turned, defeatedly, to return to the carriage. Marie gave him a sympathetic and supportive glance, and he directed the driver to a local street.

~*~

"Open up! For God's sake, open the door!"

The voice on the other side of the door, though muffled, certainly sounded desperate, and it was with some impatience that Meg Giry wandered from the small kitchen to open it. "_Mon dieu_, I'm coming…" she muttered, half to herself. "There's no need to disturb the entire neighbourhood." She unlocked the door, fully prepared to greet a stranger, and then gasped in surprise at the sight of a very harassed-seeming Vicomte de Chagny, whom she had not seen for several months, and another woman she did not recognize. "Monsieur le Vicomte? What-?"

"There's no time to explain, Meg," he said. "Is your mother about?"

"You'd better come inside," she said, gesturing into the house. Raoul was ready to refuse and reiterate his request, when the smell of soup and home-baked pastry wafted out of the open door, and tempted him inside. He'd dragged Marie out of the house on their insane hunt without eating lunch, and he only now realised how hungry he was.

"All right," he conceded. "But only for a while; I'm in rather a hurry…" He ushered Marie in ahead of him, and followed her as Meg closed the door after them both. She indicated a small sofa against one wall - the front door led right into the living room, and beyond that there was a small kitchen and a stairwell leading to the upper floor. The house was small, but well taken-care-of, and decorated with collected knick-knacks and various opera and dancing memorabilia, mostly old props obtained from the end of performance runs.

Meg stood helplessly for a moment in the middle of the room, and then shook her head at herself. "I'm sorry, Monsieur. I'm not a very good hostess. We don't get that many visitors, and usually my mother deals with them. And, as you know, it is usually me visiting you, not the other way around…"

"It's quite all right," reassured Marie.

"Would you like something to warm you, either of you?" she asked. "I think we have some tea…" She began to shuffle off towards the kitchen, but Raoul stopped her.

"No, but thank you. Some water for the horses wouldn't go amiss, though."

"I'll take it, sir," offered Marie, heading to the kitchen, and finding her way around with the ease of a woman who had grown up hiding in kitchen cupboards. Momentarily, she poked her head around the door frame, and asked if Meg could spare any food for their driver; Meg told her where there was some bread, and Marie vanished once more. She emerged a few seconds later with the water in a basin and some of the bread wrapped in a cloth, and then disappeared out of the house again to leave Raoul to his business.

Silence briefly fell in the room, and Meg sat down on a wooden chair near the fireplace, wondering if she should have offered to take Raoul's coat. After a moment, she spoke. "Monsieur le Vicomte, might I ask why you're here?"

"Of course. Sorry, Meg. I really _must_ speak with your mother."

Meg looked at her hands. "I'm afraid you won't be able to at the moment, Monsieur. She's rather ill, with a terrible cold. Many of the Opéra staff are, in fact, with this awful weather. I dare say you and Christine are lucky to have escaped it."

"I see. How very inconvenient…" he muttered, absently, a thought striking that perhaps Christine had not escaped it, after all, after her theorised jaunt in the rain. The thought that she might be ill, collapsed somewhere in an alley in the still torrential rain, increased his panic, but he fought it down, trying to keep a calm façade in front of Meg.

"If you don't mind my asking…" interjected Meg, "might I be able to help?"

Raoul met her gaze and saw that she was eager to help. In honesty, he had only banked on Madame Giry knowing anything about the elusive presence of the Opéra Ghost, but he had forgotten how close her daughter and Christine had been during their younger days as dancers. It was plausible, after all, that she might know the way to the house as well. "Actually… I do believe you might."

~*~

"Erik…"

There. His name, emerging from her lips without a second thought, feeling like she'd said it every day since their separation. This time, he did not chastise her for it. It had been too long since he'd heard her say it, and now, as he feared from the start, he was powerless, and would deny her nothing.

Why did she have such power over him, even now? Surely, after all these years, the effect she had used to have over him should have dwindled, even slightly. Perhaps the old adage was true - absence did make the heart grow fonder. It also made hope grow stronger, beyond all realm of plausibility - he found himself believing she had come here purely for him, despite everything he had tried to tell himself otherwise, right from the moment he'd found her. There was something in her tone of voice, something wonderful and mysterious, something he didn't recall ever noticing before… and it was his utter undoing.

_Oh, God, what if she does?_ he thought to himself. _What if, after all this time, she…_ He couldn't even bring himself to think it. For all the years of denial, avoidance, admiration from afar, and acceptance that he would never see her in the flesh again, beneath it all, Erik had hoped. He had longed to speak to her once more, to see her face, reach for her hand and not have her cringe at his touch… and now, she was here, in his house, and something was going to happen, of her volition, that would change everything. And yet… no. It was impossible. _Stop dreaming, Erik,_ chastised his mind. _Stop, before you are ultimately disappointed._

Christine was still waiting for him to answer, or perhaps reprimand her; she wanted him to say _something_, and it didn't matter what it was. Erik, however, was uncertain if there were words enough to choose from, especially now that there was the distinct possibility that anything he might say would instantly reveal his tormented thoughts. In the end, the best he could manage was a shaky acknowledgement that he'd heard her. "Yes… Christine."

She breathed a slight sigh of relief when he answered, although her expression was still vaguely troubled, as if she was trying to save the world through the power of speech alone, and was unsure, exactly, what to say. Just as she seemed about to, finally, say what she wanted, however, a thought seemed to strike, and her brow furrowed a little. "Would you sit down?"

The simple request was tainted with the slightest hint that his compliance would make life infinitely easier, and he acquiesced. He crossed the room, heading for the armchair he'd been occupying for most of the evening; before he could sit down, however, she asked, "Why do you avoid me, still? We can both plainly see there is plenty of room beside me." There was a tinge of irritation to her tone, but she seemed more hurt than anything else.

Erik looked at the sofa, and saw she was right, but he was uneasy. "But Christine, surely you-"

"No excuses," she said, seriously. "If you believe so strongly that we will hurt each other by sitting even slightly close, then there is little point in my continuing." For a moment, he was ready to refuse… but something made him straighten again and traverse the carpet between them until he was in front of the sofa. After a second's pause, he positioned himself at the far end, leaving ample space between himself and Christine. He was far from relaxed, as she seemed to have anticipated. She was satisfied, and continued talking, her voice low. "For fifteen years, we have been apart, consciously avoiding each other's existences. And to what end? This? My being here in this moment, struggling to make things right? I've had a decade and a half to do that, and yet, for some reason, I chose this night. I naïvely thought that nothing would change…" She trailed off, apparently losing her train of thought.

"Have things changed?" he asked, prompting her to continue, now curious.

"They have," she replied, cryptically, "at least, for me. I don't know what I expected when I came here… but the bitterness was no surprise, I admit. You do have every right to hate me after everything that happened all those years ago."

"Are you asking for my forgiveness?" he asked, surprised.

"I suppose I am," she admitted.

"Then I grant it willingly," he said, "although I have nothing to forgive. If anything, it is me who should beg forgiveness."

She shook her head. "If I was hurt, it was through no fault of yours; I was a stupid, silly girl trapped in a world I did not understand, nor even make an effort to. If I had only known then what I realise now…" She was going in circles, trying to put off the inevitable despite her inexplicable feeling that she would be forced to leave too soon. Why were her vocal cords defying her so? While everything made perfect, logical sense in her brain, it plainly refused to translate when it came to vocalising it.

She remembered the night on the rooftop, a mile above their heads, when she'd given her love so easily to Raoul. Thinking about it now, she knew it was only an infatuation, because he was safe and secure and there to protect her. Of course, she _had_ grown to love him as time went on; their childhood bond had formed the basis for that. By comparison, she'd fallen for Erik without even realising it, and, once she had, it was unbearable both to feel like she did (all the more so during her marriage) and to know that she'd never told him. It had plagued her conscience for so many years, and finally, with the moment fast approaching when he would know, it was proving to be the most difficult thing she'd ever had to do.

Patient though he was - he had little choice to be anything else, under the circumstances - Erik was unable to abide any more silences. Christine had been leading the conversation more or less from her arrival, but now it was up to him to prompt her to continue, if only to satisfy his insatiable curiosity. "You were not stupid," he reassured her. "Silly, perhaps, yes - after all, what girl of your age wasn't? - but never stupid. And if I had only given you the _chance_ to understand, rather than scaring you senseless, then things might have been different."

"Yes," she said, "that, they might." After a deep breath, she looked across to him, and asked, "Erik… why do you suppose I fainted just now?"

As before, he avoided her eyes and studiously examined the rug by the fire. "I'm sure I don't know."

"Yes, you do," she said, persistently. "Unless you can look me in the eye and tell me otherwise."

He debated this challenge for a few moments, and then lifted his head slowly. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked away precious seconds as he turned to face her again; Christine felt her breathing become erratic, and tried to calm herself down before she keeled over again. She blinked. When the darkness cleared, Erik's eyes met her own for the second time that day.

This time, there was only coldness staring back at her.

~*~

Meg Giry had listened to the Vicomte's account of the events of the past two days, and, try as she might, was unable to feel disbelief at Christine's actions. The two had remained friends after Christine's wedding, and, although they had grown apart in recent years, through no fault of their own, Meg was still the one with whom she entrusted secrets. Of course, there were also secrets that were kept from each other; Meg and her mother had been keeping something from her for years, agreeing that it was for her own good. It seemed, however, that there had been no point, as Christine apparently knew.

_Erik n'est pas mort_. Far from it, in fact; he was very much alive, and still living below the Opéra. They had never met him personally, of course, and he no longer haunted his preferred Box Five; rather, he was generally peaceable and, for all intents and purposes, non-existent. It was decided that Christine should not find out, since he was obviously trying very hard not to be discovered. Never had either of them imagined that she might know the truth herself.

Raoul had explained his predicament, with Marie, on her return, filling in what she knew. Meg failed to be surprised, but tried to look otherwise when she exclaimed, "She ran away?"

"So it would seem," said Raoul with a nod. "She's gone to the Opéra, Meg. I know it. It's the only possible place she could have gone."

"What makes you think that?" she asked, although she knew full well why he had come to that conclusion. It was exactly what her immediate thought had been as to Christine's location when he'd told her. Nothing had ever been explicitly stated, but Meg knew how Christine had felt about the Opéra ghost. After the headline in _L'Epoque_, when she and Raoul had finally managed to get through to her, Christine had taken Meg aside and told her everything. She had denied nothing when questioned - she admitted to her fear, to her growing fondness for her Angel of Music - but Meg had been too afraid to ask how deep the feelings went. Despite that, however, it became increasingly obvious the more she reminisced that Christine had loved him, whether she realised it or not. It was safe to assume, for the moment, that Raoul did not realise, either.

"Surely she has other friends?" Meg continued, cautiously. "People in the city whom she might have gone to visit?"

Raoul shook his head. "Christine… well, she rarely associates with our acquaintances," he admitted. "She much prefers being alone these days. Besides which, she was seen heading towards the Opéra."

"I see…" Meg was unsure if Raoul knew about the situation, and chose her words carefully. "But… why?"

The Vicomte buried his head in his hands. "Isn't it obvious?" He let out a sigh that became a groan. "Erik."

So, he _did_ know. It was pointless to feign ignorance any longer, so Meg merely nodded. "He is alive…" she said, hoping her statement sounded more like a point she wished to be clarified. Luckily, it did.

"So it would seem, and so Christine also believes." He said nothing more, and Meg pressed the matter no further than that, having realised that Raoul's assumption of Christine's whereabouts, and her reasons for being there, had been correct. She was now in something of a dilemma, torn between loyalty to her friend, and inherent respect for Raoul. She knew that Christine was stubborn, and was unlikely to be easy to find when she had set her mind on disappearing - especially if, as it seemed, Erik was involved. But Raoul had come here, in desperation, because he believed that Madame Giry was the only person who could help him - and that responsibility had now fallen onto Meg.

Her mother, she knew, would have had no such dilemma. She would have helped Raoul without a second thought for Christine's motives; Meg would inevitably have tried to warn her friend over helping the Vicomte. For a long time, she had yearned to tell Christine what she and her mother knew, especially after those three fateful words had appeared in _L'Epoque_, and Christine was showing no signs of ceasing her grief-ridden stupor. Yet, for fifteen years, she had managed it, and all apparently for no purpose. _Oh, God,_ she thought, _what am I to do?_

In the end, it was her conscience that won the battle. In the eyes of God and, more importantly, society and a circle of high-profile friends, Christine had promised her life to Raoul, whether it had been the correct decision or not. All those involved in the events of that year, Christine herself included, knew that her heart had betrayed her long before the wedding; all, of course, except for the one it yearned for. It was very likely that Christine's own conscience had finally snapped and sent her running into the night, and Meg was proud of her audacity. Nevertheless, it seemed it was her duty to help Raoul bring her back.

The room had been silent, except for the crackling of the fire, for some time. Eventually, it was Marie who spoke up. "I understand that your mother once knew Erik?"

At first, Meg did not reply; Raoul used her hesitation to remind her: "You managed to find your way there once, didn't you?" She nodded. A memory returned of herself as a young girl, standing alone and confused in an empty, dark lair, with only a white mask to prove there had ever been life there at all. "I know it's been a very long time, but... do you think you could do it again?"

"I... I think so," she said, with more conviction than she felt.

"Well, Mademoiselle Giry? Are you to help us?" That was Marie once more, domineering, in a tone that defied disagreement.

"Yes," she said, although her heart was heavy with the words. "I'll help you.

_To be continued..._

**A/N:** Sorry, sorry, my ChristineMuse seems perfectly content to keep putting it off. I really don't like this chapter; all of the conversations and internal monologues seem really out-of-character, and it's repetitive. But whatever, it's a chapter, and it's something, right? The next one'll be better, I promise... 


	11. Part Eleven

**SWEET INTOXICATION**

_**A/N: **Okay. Don't say it. I know. I know, okay? It's been over a year since I updated this. And I'd do shout-outs for the last batch of (increasingly desperate) reviews, but they'd be rather redundant, so I'll just hurl out a random "Thank you!" followed by a down-on-bended-knees, hands-clasped "I'm so, so sorry..." _

So. After that horrendously unacceptable wait, I'm afraid this chapter isn't even that good. But I promise you, the next one will be much better, as we finally get to the moment you've been waiting for. This is just some preamble, and very little E/C dialogue. And please, believe me when I say I'll get the next one out a lot faster. This story is not forgotten, just slightly dormant... 

Part Eleven

Christine's addled brain tried to make sense of what her eyes were telling her, whilst her heart told her something else entirely. Somehow, she had completely lost control of the situation, and didn't have a clue what to do. She _knew_ what she'd seen before in his eyes, and yet now, Erik was trying to convince her of the exact opposite. He had never been able to conceal anything from her, but, suddenly, he was succeeding in blocking her out and keeping her as far away from him emotionally as he possibly could. 

She wondered if her total confusion was obvious on her face, and performed a mental check to make sure her mouth really hadn't dropped open; it hadn't. _Thank heaven for small mercies_, she thought. At least she still appeared to look reasonably intelligent, even if her mind was reeling from Erik's conflicting signals. The absolute cold nonchalance of his gaze chilled her to the bone, and she struggled to understand what might have caused this sudden change. Frantically, she thought over their most recent exchange, trying to work out what she could have said to provoke it. Nothing was apparent. As the silence loomed large between them, all Christine could do was sit and think what she could possibly say to him, fighting the suddenly overwhelming urge to merely give up.

* * *

The Vicomte's carriage was a perfectly adequate size to accommodate three people, but Meg was beginning to feel decidedly claustrophobic. Raoul and Marie had seated themselves opposite her at the back of the carriage, at either end of the cushioned seat, whilst Meg herself was sitting in the middle of the other seat, going backwards. A small window directly in her line of vision showed the road previously travelled, and her own hastily abandoned home vanishing around the corner. 

Both pairs of eyes bored into her, silently questioning. The driver knew the way to the Opéra, of course, but Meg was expected to lead the way back to the underground lair, as Raoul, driven forward by fear of losing Christine, had barely registered his surroundings at the time. Since Erik's reappearance, Meg and her mother had learnt the route to his house through the underground passages from the Rue Scribe, a journey that took only a few minutes. The more circuitous route the mob had taken – as well as Meg herself that first time – took far longer. 

She was beginning to feel as though she might be interrogated, especially given the secrets she knew. She wondered if Raoul already knew what she'd been trying to conceal for all those years, and if he might suddenly begin to question her about it. How much did Marie know of that year? How much had she been told? 

Meg swallowed her nervousness, and sat firmly on her hands to stop herself from fidgeting. It wouldn't do to show her anxiousness about the situation. She'd agreed to help them, certainly, but somewhere in her heart she felt a traitor for betraying Christine in such a manner, just as her conscience kept on telling her that aiding Raoul in his quest was the greater cause. All she could hope to do was delay the inevitable as long as she could, and hopefully give Christine enough time to do what she needed to do. 

Raoul seemed to sense her discomfort. "I'm sorry to put you in such a position, Meg. I realise your loyalty to Christine has made this decision difficult." 

She tried not to let the indecision show on her face. "You are not putting me to any trouble," she said. "I'm sure you're only thinking of Christine's best interests, and I have to admit, I'm as worried as you are." Mentally, she cringed, knowing that Christine would have chastised her for saying that. 

"You _do_ remember the way, don't you?" he asked, brow furrowed. Meg said nothing, in case her voice betrayed her in her half-truths. "You're my only hope now." 

Once more, her conscience intervened. "Yes, Monsieur. I remember the way." 

"Good," said Marie, speaking for the first time since they'd entered the carriage, "because I do believe we're almost there." 

Meg felt herself go cold. She shuffled across the seat to the window, pushed aside the curtain, and strained to look behind her. The Opéra loomed through the sheets of torrential water, its green roofs harsh against the grey sky and its golden angels all the more sparkling from the rain. Its beauty struck Meg instantly, as it had done so many times in her youth, and a bleak desperation filled her soul.

* * *

Erik was a fool, and he knew it. They had been on the absolute brink of something beyond his wildest dreams, and inherent fear and stubbornness had ruined everything. He should have shut her out right from the start, before she managed to corner him in such a way; she'd learnt some new tricks over the years, that much was certain. How much of that had she learnt from him, he wondered, and how much had been born of necessity to get her own way with that stubborn Vicomte? 

He sat not three feet from her, in absolute conflict: hoping beyond hope that Christine might break through once more, yet at the same time wishing she would leave him in his misery, to languish for another fifteen years without her. He wasn't sure which of those options he feared the most. Could he honestly let her go now, having seen her again? Could he release her once more to the arms of his rival, and tell himself it was for her own good, when her being here proved the exact opposite? He doubted it. But to contemplate any other, happier foreseeable future was too terrifying. 

Erik had spent a lifetime without love, and had become accustomed to it; but Christine's presence stirred in him that almost unfamiliar yearning from fifteen years ago, when she had first drifted into his world. Honestly, he mused, she had never really left. He realised that much now, that every opening night she'd performed had been for him, providing countless opportunities to end the charade. They were both equally to blame for the position they were now in. Erik himself had certainly not made matters any easier, however. 

Christine was looking away from him, now, no longer trying to read his thoughts, and he let out a silent breath. Trying to force such coldness into his gaze had been difficult enough; maintaining the expression would have been nearly impossible, not to mention exhausting. She stared, emotionless, into the fireplace, and did not move for several seconds. Then, silently, she rose, brushed the creases from her blue dress, and bent to retrieve her now-dry shoes from the hearth, where Erik had laid them only a few hours ago. 

At that moment, in a deafening silence that seemed to stretch for centuries, Erik felt what he had hoped would only be a once-in-a-lifetime sensation – that of his heart snapping neatly in two.

* * *

Fumbling with keys, when one knew exactly which one to use, was not as easy as it appeared to be. The rain, however, helped immensely, making the metal slippery to handle with her cold fingers, and causing Meg to drop the bunch on two occasions and have to start again. Luckily, Raoul seemed not to notice her stalling, and his irritation was more caused by his desire to get inside out of the rain. 

"Are you certain, Miss Giry, that you even _have_ the correct key?" 

Meg pondered for a moment how much time they could gain if she made them drive back under the pretence of not having it, then decided against it. That would only make him suspicious, not to mention annoyed. "Yes, sir. I do have it." Another wrong key. "I'm sorry; I'm just so flustered." 

After a few more failed attempts, however, Meg had to concede defeat and unlock the door. It creaked open into the darkened foyer; Meg stepped inside at Raoul's courteous gesture, followed by Marie and Raoul himself, and the door closed once more, plunging them into darkness, and blocking out the pounding of the rain. 

Raoul peered into the blackness and tried to get his bearings. They had agreed on the journey not to bother lighting up the entire building, as, for starters, it might alert Erik to their presence, and they weren't entirely sure if the cellars were electrified. They'd brought along two gas lamps instead, which Marie hastily lit, casting eerie yellow light around them, but doing nothing to dispel the darkness. 

"Well, Meg. Lead the way." Raoul gestured ahead of him, and handed her one of the lamps. She took it with a slight nod, and set off towards the multitude of rehearsal rooms and backstage areas, part of her hoping that she might accidentally get them lost. If all else failed, she could use the darkness to her advantage; she knew that Raoul had frequently managed to lose his bearings around the backstage passages, whereas she knew them intimately. She had played here as a girl, chased the other dancers through the building during her younger days when her mother gave them a break from the arduous rehearsals, and knew the maze of corridors like the back of her hand. She would do everything in her power to buy Christine as much time as possible. 

The only thing in Raoul's direct line of vision was the back of Meg's head, and the area that the gas-lamp lit ahead of them. It seemed he was already taking for granted the luxury of electric lights, having forgotten how bad visibility could be, especially in the stuffy corridors of the Opéra. Marie had been oddly quiet since they had left the Giry residence, to the extent that he was beginning to think she knew something he didn't. He dared not question her, though; he had laid his hope on Meg, and if Marie had any doubts, they would only confuse him even more. 

He had no reason not to trust the Giry daughter. He had always considered her an honest soul, and a good and decent friend to Christine. If anyone had her best interests at heart, it was Meg… wasn't it?

* * *

As she fastened the tiny buttons on her ruined shoes, Christine focused all of her attention on the meniality of the task, rather than paying any heed to Erik. She could feel the desperation and utter despair emanating from his presence, and knew, even as she had risen to collect her shoes, that she was making a terrible mistake. _No_, she told herself. _Don't think of it. He has made it clear what he wants you to do._ Even so, it took nearly all of her will-power not to turn around and face him once more, even though she was certain she would see the truth in his eyes. 

She rose once more and looked around the room, trying to find out where Erik had placed her cloak. Spotting it hanging near the door – or, at least, where she remembered his front door to be – she collected it, and wrapped it about herself in one swift movement. The dress she'd travelled in was still in her old room, but she suspected it was beyond redemption, the mud and dust from the catacombs ingrained and the hems all torn. To cross the room to fetch it would be more than she could bear, so she relinquished it. She owned other dresses; the loss of one wouldn't matter, especially as it would only serve to remind her of this day and her failed quest. She tied the cloak tighter, refusing to turn around or meet Erik's penetrating gaze as he watched her. It was then that she realised she had no earthly idea how she'd come in, as the exact location of the entrance had been lost to her blissful unconsciousness. She had planned to leave silently and without any fuss, disappear from his life without a word as if nothing had happened, but it was impossible. 

In her hesitation, Erik grasped at one final chance. "Christine…" She still refused to turn; it would be easier on them both. Her stance, however, relaxed a little, and, even from behind her, Erik took the opportunity she was offering. She heard him rise, move around the sofa, and approach, coming to a half mere inches behind her. A mirror – which seemed oddly out of place in his home, and certainly hadn't been there before – revealed both of their reflections to her, as Erik raised a hand as if to touch her shoulder, then dropped it once more. Christine met own eyes only briefly, afraid of what might stare back – herself, or some heartless creature she did not recognise? 

Erik shook his head in bitter defeat. "Go, if you must," he told her, gesturing slightly to the left, indicating the door was concealed behind some heavy draperies on the far wall. "But at the very least, grant me the simple courtesy of telling me why you came here." 

Christine bowed her head, and stepped away towards the concealed door. She pulled the hood of her cape up over her hair, and then moved the draperies aside to reveal the hidden entrance – and subsequent exit – of Erik's domain. 

_This is wrong…_

A bell rang: Erik's early alarm system on the other side of the lake. Raoul must have found out she was here, or perhaps worked out for himself her reasons for leaving. She had very little time left; she needed to get out and head Raoul off at the pass before he arrived. At the very least, she needed to get outside the house and pretend, when he arrived, that she had been unable to gain entry. She would feign confusion, and say nothing more of it. But how could she leave Erik like this now, believing God only knew what her reasons were for being here? 

_To be continued... _

**A/N:** I warned you it sucked, right? I mean, nobody's going to frown because I misled you into believing it was actually decent? Good; just so we're clear. If you review, I promise it'll get better next time. :P


	12. Part Twelve

**SWEET INTOXICATION**

_**A/N:**Another year between updates, I realise. I haven't written anything in about five months, shockingly. But in a sudden burst of re-inspiration, I finally finished this poor excuse for a chapter. I have the first few sentences of Part Thirteen, and some of it in draft form, but I make no promises as to when it will appear._

Until then... there's this. I'm still trying to put off the inevitable, but hopefully the few moments of E/C interaction in this chapter will be enough to satiate you all...

Part Twelve

She finally forced herself to turn around, and found Erik frozen to the spot. Straight away, she knew what he must be thinking, though she could not bear the idea that he suspected she was responsible for their uninvited 'guests'. Under the circumstances, all she could think to say to him was, "I told you I did not have much time…"

There was a brief flash in his eyes of vague amusement, but it was gone just as suddenly. Christine knew, however, that he believed her, and her heart became less heavy with guilt.

"I must go," she said. He would understand that she was only trying to protect him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here."

She took a step.

Erik's hand shot forwards in the blink of an eye and grasped onto her own, halting her. She gasped, but did not pull away like she had before. She met his gaze and a thousand conflicting emotions stared back at her, reflecting how she felt herself. How long had she been here? A day? Perhaps more? Perhaps mere hours? Time held no meaning in Erik's subterranean world, and if only she had the power to make everything outside of these four walls cease, just for a moment…

They remained, trapped and speechless, as Erik examined her for the first time, assessing the changes in her appearance and demeanour. Christine did the same. He was thinner, as she herself had gained a little weight from rich dining and lack of ballet training, though her abdomen was still strong. His mask had changed a little, seeming to mimic the contours of his face with more subtlety, as well as appearing more comfortable; his hand where it touched her own was almost bone-white against her own sun-browned skin, and the long, elegant fingers made her own seem thick and clumsy. He seemed as fascinated by the contrast as she was, perhaps realising what he'd released her to all those years ago – a life of sunshine and riches beyond her dreams. She couldn't find the words to tell him that all she'd desired for so many years had been to have him near her, as a teacher, a friend, a confidante, though she knew the impossibility it would have presented had they tried to be more.

Erik tried to speak, but all he could manage to come out with was a desperate plea: "Christine… please…"

Neither of them knew what he was asking of her, but in that moment, she understood precisely what she had to do. "Oh, Erik," she said, sighing, "haven't you realised yet? After fifteen years of opening nights and singing your beautiful arias for encore after encore, until I was sure my heart would break? By God, it wasn't for _Raoul's_ benefit!" She pulled her hand from his in frustration, bringing both hands to her temples in a gesture of helplessness. "Please don't ask me why I came here; I honestly can't answer that. All I _do_ know is that I _must_ leave now, for both our sakes."

She held onto the hope that he would understand, but that hope was dashed to the metaphorical rocks. "Then, please," he asked, "tell me."

Christine tried to find the words, but her voice refused to function, and she could only stare desperately. Erik seemed to accept her silence and her apparent refusal to answer, and adopted a thoughtful expression, scrutinising her. Silently, she begged him to push her, to force the words she could not say from her throat, like he had forced the purest soprano from her once before, but he did not.

"You have become a fine woman, my dear," he told her, "and I am certain the Vicomte believes so, too, if he has eyes with which to see. I thought never to meet the woman you might grow into. I thought only to imagine her in my wildest dreams, and yet… here she is in front of me. You must believe me; I am grateful you gave me the opportunity."

She gave him a curious look, raising one eyebrow. "Do you really believe that? You honestly have no regrets?"

"Do I regret letting you go, for your own sake?" he clarified, rhetorically. "No. Never." When she presented him with no answer to this other than anticipatory silence, he continued, "But for my own? Every day of my life, I regret that. To see you now is more than I ever hoped for."

Christine felt something within herself melt, and she needed to know, once and for all, to end the pretence and cryptic exchanges. With every seriousness, she asked, "And do you love me still?"

He began to speak, presumably to launch into a lengthy explanation, but then decided, as she had, that the time for talking around the subject had ended. "Yes. As much now as ever."

Flooded with absolute relief, she felt almost as though she might faint again. She shook her head to clear it, mindless of how the gesture might appear, but she did not have any time to respond, as Erik continued, "So, will you leave me now? Will you return to the arms of your Vicomte, knowing that I love you?"

She gave a slow nod. "Yes. I must return. But may God have mercy upon my treacherous soul, for I am certain he must realise by now that I've loved you all these years… He must realise," she repeated, "even if you don't."

At this point, she rather belatedly realised that she'd finally manage to say the words, and a smile began to form on her lips, until Erik's guarded expression stopped her. He seemed unsure whether she was being truthful or merely humouring him – _How can he suspect such a thing?_ – and turned away. He walked slowly to the fireplace, and, facing it, he placed both hands upon the mantelpiece. Christine could see how tense he was, recoiled into himself like a tightened spring. Before, she might have taken his stance as a sign of danger. But she was older now, and wiser, and her childish fear of his temper had diminished. He was not angry, merely overwhelmed, and it was perfectly understandable.

She approached him carefully and cautiously, unable to maintain the silence because of her bulky and rustling dress. She came to a stop only a few inches behind him, easily within arms' distance.

"Erik…" she began, and raised a hand. He seemed to anticipate the movement.

"Don't… don't touch me. Please don't touch me."

She ignored the request; when he tried to shrug out of her grasp, she merely placed her hand more firmly upon his shoulder.

"Erik, please." He did not turn. She sighed. "I know you find this difficult to believe, but if I could stay here, I would. If by staying with you, I could disappear…" She swallowed down tears, and resorted to the words that had served her well for the majority of her curious visit. "I'm sorry."

She gave up, drained of all possible words and useful thoughts, and then removed her hand. In one fluid movement, as she made to leave, Erik turned and grasped her hand once more, tight enough that this time she could not pull away. Christine noted with only mild, grim amusement that it had taken her far longer to leave than it had to arrive.

Caught, they remained. Erik was torn between doing what was right and letting her go, or fighting for her with everything within himself. His conscience muttered to him that the right thing would be to let her return to her husband, to release her a second time to the life she so deserved… but his heart screamed at him to hold onto this moment, just a little longer. She had come so far, through the storm and the dark of night, to see him; here they stood once more, on that rickety and dangerous bridge, so near, and yet so far, from that point from which there was no return.

_Do the right thing, Erik… you must let her go._

Then, he crossed that bridge, and waited for it to break down in flames.

"Stay."

* * *

"Come back!"

Meg called after Raoul desperately, as he pelted blindly down the passageway, leaving she and Marie behind in his haste. Meg had finally had to concede defeat and lead them to the catacombs through the lower floors of the building. It was ridiculous to keep putting off the inevitable, especially considering the catacombs were inaccessible because of the lake. It was easy enough to get them all lost; her only fear was that she would really do so, if she were to take an unfamiliar turning. She knew the route only by a series of memorised numbers and directions, not by sight: the passageways were too similar for that.

She broke into a run to catch up with Raoul, and nearly ran into the back of him, as he had come to a stop at an intersection. He looked decidedly sheepish at the realisation that he did not know which way to turn.

"Please, forgive my boldness," he said.

"It is understandable, monsieur," she reassured him. "I know you're worried, but it is difficult enough to remember the way, without having to chase after you."

"She's right, monsieur," added Marie, speaking for the first time since they had entered the building. "It would be far better to remain calm and let Mlle. Giry lead the way."

"Yes. Yes, of course." He took a step back, allowing Meg to go in front of him. "By all means, after you."

Holding her head and her lantern high, Meg continued guiding them through the passages. She maintained a steady, yet cautious pace, trying to appear outwardly courageous and determined. Inside, however, she was growing increasingly more anxious. What if all of this was in vain, and Christine was not with Erik at all? What then? Where else might she have gone? And if their assumptions were correct and Christine had travelled through the night to find him, not even knowing if he was alive, what might have happened in the meantime? Would she be willing to leave with Raoul? Would she ever forgive Meg for betraying her so horribly?

These and a thousand more questions buzzed through her mind as she walked. She was painfully aware that Raoul must be thinking along the same lines, just as she was aware how all of his hope was resting on her. She was beginning to wish she'd never agreed to help, but she'd been put on the spot and forced to make a decision. Despite telling herself that this was all in Christine's best interests, part of her was convinced that only Christine should know what was best for herself. And if truth be told, Meg was pleased the secret of Erik's existence was finally out, to Raoul and Christine both.

It was then, with a certain dread, that she realised the lake was only a few short paces away. It was far too late to try and lead them back, even if she decided to do so. _Christine,_ she thought, _please forgive me…_

* * *

She wasn't entirely consciously aware of her actions as she began to reach a hand to his mask until Erik shrank away from her touch. She pulled back only a little, but her hand remained close to his face, her intentions perfectly clear. The impossibility of his request was tearing them both apart, and Christine knew how little time she had left. What she was silently asking of him seemed far too trivial, even to herself.

"Show me," she said, quietly, undemanding. "Show me the face that's haunted my dreams for so many years."

She was certain he would refuse. Similar situations had only ended badly, and now that they were on the brink of something neither could name, it seemed the worst request she could possibly have made. Christine needed to prove to herself – and to Erik – that all of her childish fears were gone.

Erik hesitated, not knowing what to do for the best. Of all the things she could have asked of him, she had to choose the impossible. Even after fifteen years, her damnable curiosity knew no bounds. What was she expecting? Something different, perhaps; something changed?

Could he refuse her this now? Could he deny her one final request?

Christine was patient, although it was a struggle to maintain it. She realised the equal impossibility of her own request, how Erik was torn between his conflicting emotions.

"Please," she implored, gently.

* * *

The tunnel ahead showed faint lamp-light at its culmination, and Meg extinguished her flame as they drew nearer. Her dread settled further into the pit of her stomach.

"The lake!" Raoul exclaimed. "We have reached the lake!"

And indeed, they had. The still water stretched before them into the dimness, too dark to see the bottom. Mossy stains along the walls indicated how the levels had changed over the years dependent on the building's requirements, and the murky water looked cold and uninviting. The treacherous, narrow pathways that had previously accommodated travelling by foot, merely jutting bricks around the edge of the lake, had decayed and collapsed over time, making the other side practically inaccessible.

She instinctively positioned herself in between the Vicomte and the water, in case he decided to do something rash in his haste. The water was currently an impenetrable barrier, buying Meg – and Christine – yet more time.

Raoul and Marie had both noticed the obvious obstacle they were now facing, and it was Raoul who voiced it. "There's no boat."

Meg almost jumped for joy in her relief. Perhaps he would give up now he realised it was impossible to reach the house from this side of the building. She remained calm, however, fixing an expression of consternation on her face, as though formulating a plan in her head.

"You are correct, Monsieur," she clarified, rather pointlessly. "I don't see any other way for us to cross the lake. It is far too deep to even walk through, and too cold."

Muttering a curse under his breath, Raoul began to pace, irritably, his footsteps echoing in the dark chamber. Marie was watching Meg with a suspicious expression that was distinctly unnerving. Had she been too obvious in her attempts to stall their progress? It was too late now, at any rate; if Marie suspected something, there was little point in worrying about it.

Raoul stopped pacing for a moment, and addressed Meg. "Is there no other way around from here?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm afraid there isn't. " Then, realising how the comment made her sound more knowledgeable than she was supposed to be about the layout of the catacombs, she added, "At least, I should think not… and I wouldn't want to risk trying to find another way through, or we might find ourselves utterly lost."

"Yes. Yes, of course…"

Raoul paused a moment, contemplating the situation. Then, suddenly, he pushed his way past Meg, removing his coat as he went.

With an almighty splash, he dived into the lake. Meg and Marie instinctively stepped back to avoid being soaked, but then moved to the water's edge in futile pursuit, as Raoul was already swimming away.

"What are you doing, Monsieur!" called Marie, panic in her tone.

He stopped a moment and turned, treading water from a few feet away. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"You will catch your death!" she warned. "And how can you be sure to reach the other side?"

"I have travelled this lake by boat once," he told her, "and I remember its proportions fairly well. Both of you, return to the carriage and wait. I will be back with Christine, or not at all."

With that, he turned once more and began to swim again, making powerful strokes through the water. Meg and Marie watched him disappear into the darkness, until the sound of his splashing could no longer be heard clearly, before exchanging a fearful glance.

There was nothing they could do except follow his instructions. Silently, Meg re-lit her lamp and led the way back through the tunnels.

_To be continued..._

**A/N:** My creativity has withered and died, but I'm growing it again, stage by stage. A review or two would be like plantfood from heaven. 


	13. Part Thirteen

_**A/N:** Over a year without updating again. For that, you can blame the fact that my brain, er, fell apart, and as a consequence I was completely unable to write anything. My apologies, anyway, for the delay. This is the first 'official' thing I've posted since 'recovering', and I hope that's recompense enough for the time lost. Also, welcome to any new readers who might have fallen across the story._

_This is quite possibly the most important chapter of the entire thing, and the one you've all been waiting for. As a result, it's almost entirely E/C-based (well, Raoul's got a lake to swim across…) with very little to interrupt the flow. It also starts off the section of the story that was the original inspiration – the Crawford/Streisand version of Music of the Night. That doesn't come until Chapter Fourteen, however._

_For now, enjoy the angst. And the fluff. But mostly angst._

Part Thirteen

Raoul considered himself a strong swimmer, but the coldness of the dark lake was proving difficult to conquer. He was beginning to have trouble catching his breath, the water seeming to chill him even more the further he went. Of course, the irony of the situation was not lost on him; after running into another lake so many years ago to retrieve Christine's scarf, it was quite befitting he should be retrieving the woman herself in the same manner.

The thought of his destination was enough to rebuild his strength and determination. He moved quickly, slicing through the water. Years ago, he remembered, there had been lamps along the catacomb walls to light the way. Erik had seen to that, of course, in order to illuminate the path to his home. Now they had mostly burnt out, forgotten during the electrification process of the building, and the cavernous chambers were dark. His visibility was poor, but he knew that the lake covered several chambers – the exact number, though, he was unsure of – and that eventually, if he continued forwards, he would reach his destination.

Once more, he quickened his pace, this time changing his strokes. Then, suddenly, he was choking, gasping for breath, flailing. He had not adapted his breathing in time to keep up with his new-found burst of speed, and had swallowed water.

His head went under and he panicked, treading water sloppily and splashing around like a madman. He went under a second time, sinking further, and this time his manic flailing did nothing to help.

"_I will be back with Christine… or not at all…" _he remembered saying. The second alternative was starting to become a reality, unless he could do something to save himself. Nobody would hear him; the building was deserted. Water entered his nose and he tried to cough, only filling his mouth instead. _Think, man. Think!_

He opened his eyes; after the initial sting, he tried to focus. There was nothing but inky blackness in every direction. Finally, he forced his limbs to cooperate and allowed himself to sink further a few more inches, straight downwards, before giving two powerful kicks upwards.

He broke the surface of the water, spitting, and gasped for oxygen. The crisp air of the catacombs was relatively warm compared to the lake, providing a welcome relief for his chilled skin. He stayed put for a moment, regaining his bearings and his breath. The light of the previous shore was still behind him, glowing distantly, and ahead, the lake stretched onwards.

With new-found determination, Raoul set off once more, steadily and carefully. Bravado and heroic over-enthusiasm would help nobody if he managed to drown himself in the process. He kept Christine's image in his mind, driving himself forwards.

* * *

Her patience had worn thin. If Erik would not make a decision, she would make it for him. 

He flinched away from her only briefly, as she reached to remove the mask. It was an automatic reaction, and she had been expecting nothing less. Erik could remember only her first reaction so many years ago, her horror and fear; her present calmness was unnerving.

Christine held out the mask to him; he took it with trembling fingers, glad of the chance to look away, if only briefly. She did not speak, merely gazed levelly back at him.

Erik did not look up for some time, instead staring steadfastly at the mask, clutched tightly in his hand. Christine watched his expression, what she could see of it: his furrowed brow and pursed lips. She had taken the first step; the rest was up to him.

After a moment's consideration, Erik turned. He stepped away from her only briefly, placing the mask carefully onto a nearby table, before returning to stand in front of her. Slowly, he met her gaze. She had maintained her calm and level expression, and was utterly unreadable.

Christine bit her bottom lip, thoughtfully.

When she reached up to touch the scarred flesh, Erik resisted the natural urge to move away from her searching, warm fingertips, though it took every ounce of his self-control. For years, his naked face had brought nothing upon him but violence and hatred; he was no longer sure how much of the scarring had been there since his birth, and how much was the result of such violence. Even with Christine, it was difficult to think of anything else.

She paused a moment, giving him time. Thinking back to that first encounter, she recalled how utterly terrified she had been; looking upon him now, she wondered why. Certainly, his angry, explosive reaction had surprised her, and it was her first experience of his fiery temper. But there was really nothing so horrendous about his face; it was exactly as she'd remembered, in fleeting memory and lingering dreams.

Christine felt great pity rise in her, but not, as it once had been, because of his unfortunate existence. Now older, she understood the need to be alone and locked away from the world; it was far preferable to her current life of forced socialising. No, her pity was for all that Erik might have experienced, if it hadn't been for the ignorance of others. She wished there were enough time to show him what tenderness was. Christine knew it would take months – perhaps even years – to undo all of the damage of his early life. She had mere minutes left in which to make him understand that not all physical contact would result in pain.

Overwhelmed by sensation and emotion, Christine was only vaguely aware of her own actions. She let her hand drop again, and leaned forwards, upwards, pressing her lips softly to his marred cheek. Erik's grip on her hand tightened, his entire body stiffening defensively with the natural urge to flee.

She placed her free hand over his heart, beating as erratically as her own, and leaned close to his ear. She would not be misunderstood a second time. She paused again, savouring the moment.

The silence extended, filling the room, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire and Erik's breathing at her ear, the steady, frantic percussion of his heartbeat. She closed her eyes, swallowing the lump in her throat to steady her voice, and whispered the words it had taken her fifteen years to say.

"I love you."

Erik's vice-like grip on her hand immediately relinquished, and her arm fell to her side once more. His rejection, she realised with a sinking heart, was now all too clear.

Christine began to pull away from him, fighting back tears, but a second later his arms were around her: tentative and cautious, as though she might break. She was unable to dam her emotions any longer; she gave a strangled choke of relief and wept freely, burying her face in the front of his shirt. Instinctively, his arms tightened to support her.

Her ragged cries subsided after a moment and he pushed her back slightly, raising her chin with one finger to meet her gaze.

"Do you mean it?"

A nod, and a sniff. Her eyes were red and glistening from tears, but her gaze never left his. "Yes, Erik. Yes. I mean it."

As her lips met his, she recalled just how easily she had found herself drowning, falling, toppling into darkness, before suddenly and irrevocably finding herself surrounded by a chorus of angels as her heart began to sing. She did love this man – this angel, this dangerous creature of night, this Phantom – more than anything in the world. More, even, than her own devoted husband, and the utter wrongness of the sentiment had vanished from her mind. To be in Erik's arms once more, supported by his deceptively strong embrace, was like returning home.

Just as before, however, Christine knew that nothing greater could come of her actions, no matter how desperately she wished it would solve everything. Unwillingly, she dragged herself back partway to reality, and began to break the kiss.

They parted, breathless. The pull of their combined passions was almost irresistible, more so even than during that fatal performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_. But she was no longer Aminta, he no longer the eponymous hero, and even through the delirium, they both knew that they could not act on it.

Christine took a step back; he released her without argument, uttering once more that single, desperate plea:

"Stay."

It was so tempting to give in, to stay with him. But Erik's early warning alarm could mean only one thing – Raoul had come to find her. She needed some idea of how much time they had left, entirely unwilling to leave before it was strictly necessary.

Suddenly, something in her brain clicked into place. "Is there still a boat?" she asked.

Erik seemed surprised, perhaps assuming she was eager to go. "A what?"

"A boat," she repeated, a little impatiently. "Is there still a boat on the other side of the lake?"

"Oh. No," he clarified, "I made sure of that almost immediately after my return. It is very difficult to cross the water these days. Not impossible, alas, but certainly not easy."

So, it seemed they had some time to spend before her inevitable departure. Christine knew she would have to leave before Raoul's arrival, to meet him outside the house and pretend she had never managed to gain access – pretend, even, that the house no longer existed at all. If Fortune was on her side, Raoul might never suspect a thing; temporary insanity, perhaps, but nothing more.

After a moment's thought and a glance at the piano, she instantly knew of a way they could be together in the short time they had left. There was a medium through which they could communicate everything, without the need for words or awkwardness, just as there had always been.

"Play for me," she said. "Sit at the piano and play; whatever your heart tells you. Will you?"

He moved towards the instrument, positioning himself on the stool and placing his previously-worked music to one side. "Only," he said, "if my dear Prima Donna will sing with me."

"Oh, Erik…" she sighed. "I would love nothing more."

She moved to his side, watching. Erik closed his eyes, looking thoughtful. He poised his hands over the keys, moving them soundlessly in time with a symphony in his brain, before finally depressing the first chord.

_**A/N:**Well, that's it, for now. I know it's only short, but it's hopefully sweet enough to make up for it. The beginning of the next chapter is written, and hopefully it won't take me too long to get it finished, as I'm now pretty much working from the song lyrics and the little notes I scrawled on them._

_As ever, reviews are muchly appreciated. I am your most humble servant, and I can't apologise enough for not updating in so long. I honestly hope to rectify that situation as the months go on and my brain finds itself again. Watch, as they say, this space..._


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